Real or Not Real
by Bearbutt
Summary: You're a snake eating your own tail. Jill-centric Post-RE5 fic. Features plenty of flashbacks as Jill tries to piece her life and consciousness back together. New rating for brief moments of intimacy.
1. Jill: The Boys are Waiting

**This is my interpretation of a post-RE5 Jill. Based on her reactions to giant tentacle monsters, I see her being more likely to hide any emotional pain. She's really more shocked/dazed in this chapter then fully realising her situation. At any point she could wake up and not be surprised, so she's proceeding business as usual until it hits her. Jill's ability to survive mortal injuries is something that fascinates me about the series. Capcom has typically handwaved it as 'she got better', but my headcanon places it more along the lines of her being a human Tyrant.**

**Notes:**

**-Jill is labelled as former Delta Force, which is impossible because Delta Force do not allow women. However, I've written her as a member of the American Military in the early 90s.** **The peacekeeping mission in Somalia, specifically. She'd be 18 around the time of the conflict, old enough to be a member of the military and giving her five years between that and Raccoon City.**

**-I've put Kijuju and the West African BSAA branch in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Why? Because it's the farthest west African country that still speaks Swahili. Once again, Capcom's knowledge of geography astounds.**

**-Chris shows up in the next chapter, but this is really a Jill-centric story.**

**There are a few OCs in this series, but they're around to serve a minor purpose, not be Princess Sparklypants married to Wesker. Carter, Wu, Samson, Dodds, and Kenei are all mine. Others belong to Capcom of course.**

**Obviously, I own nothing. Reviews fuel my writing, so let me know if you want more.**

* * *

They drag you -all of you- to a pair of decontamination tents. You can't see their eyes through the heavy plastic of their hazmat suits.

Once in the tents, your clothes are tugged and cut away from your body. You expect them to be burned or sealed away in bags marked 'Biohazard'. No garment is spared. They even cut away the black briefs worn for modesty. Your eyes loll blearily and you catch sight of Sheva in no better condition. She looks a little too shellshocked to be uncomfortable. You'd pat her on the shoulder, but you still don't trust yourself to not try to murder everyone due to some evil back-up chip.

Still, naked strangling... there are worse ways to go. _You_ would know that after all.

_That thing has you in its grip. You smell its disgusting breath, hear it groan "Staaarrrs." It's going to impale you just like Brad. You brace yourself as one of its twisty slimy gross disgusting stabs your stomach. You're vomiting up blood in the church, hearing voices as you collapse._

_Breaking glass. Inertia. Your organs explode and your bones shatter upon impact. His body does nothing to shield you. Yet, raspy breaths continue to inflate your collapsing lungs. Eletric synapses fire through your brain._

You are dead, but still alive all the same. It saves you from becoming worm food. It gives others your fate instead.

You're a snake eating your own tail.

_He cuts away the pieces to see what grows back._

The splash of lukewarm water and chemicals on your face snaps you out of your morbid flashbacks. Sheva is next to you, shivering like an excited chihuahua. Being able to wash your own body without the little voice in your head saying "now lather for exactly sixty seconds" is fuck-awesome. Not smelling like decaying flesh is also pretty awesome.

You take a moment to just revel in the spray. Your eyes trace the lines of fat and muscle on the younger woman's body. Sheva either doesn't notice your scrutiny, or doesn't mind. She's lean -thinner than you'll ever be- and the small thatch of hair between her legs makes you miss your own pubes.

P30 doesn't cause hair loss, Excella just felt the weird need to give you bikini waxes.

The spray sputters to a stop and you look around for some kind of towel. You follow a sealed passage to a better lit room and see a pair of towels and some blue-green scrubs. The terrycloth is threadbare, probably because they're going to have to throw it out. It doesn't matter to you, the scratchy sensation is refreshing as you pad yourself dry.

They've provided you with cotton panties, but no bra. You never thought you'd miss the confines of an underwire. After two years though, it would be nice to not be stuck to the inside of your shirt. The scrubs feel floaty and quasi-itchy. Speaking of your breasts, they don't seem to need the same amount of wrangling to get in this shirt. It must be the weight you lost. This is the first thing that really upsets you since you got off the helicopter. Your eyes water a little, but you brush them off and step into the shower sandals stacked under the clothing.

You don't check to see if Sheva's all right when you leave the tent. It's selfish, you know, but comforting has never been your thing. You're the master of unlocking, not the master of motherly concern.

That's Claire.

The harsh setting sun hurts your eyes. You wonder if this is how kids who live in their parents' basement feel about going outside. Hiss.

A pair of fresh-looking jarheads seem to oogle you, but stop and salute instead. Oh yeah, you're kind of a hero in these parts. You nod to them and adjust your spine to fit a woman of your ranking.

You continue strolling through the throngs of people all caged in by the chainlink fence of this compound. Someone grabs at your arm and you whip around, fists raised. The woman holds up her arms in surrender. In one hand, she holds a penlight and clipboard. That and the homely figure plus lab coat makes you recognize her as a on-site doctor. She has short red hair (dyed to cover grey probably) and glasses. Her smile is shy as she gives a little wave.

"I'm Dr. Carter. I've been assigned to do your physical check-up." She turns and gestures to another woman.

This woman is tall and elegant. She has salt-and-pepper hair and is wearing a thin coat of dark brown lipstick. Her hair is scrunched and pinned into a military-code above the collar bun.

"This is Dr. Wu. She'll be doing your psychological evaluation."

You nod and follow them like a mindless doll. The act isn't hard after two years of playing dumb. Rather, being forced into having no will. Semantics.

Carter does everything routine. Blood sample, mouth swab, vagina swab. She takes your blood pressure and checks your retinas.

The eye checking makes her pause.

"Odd." Is all she says.

Chris used to describe you eye-colour as 'beach glass' or 'the colour of the bottom of a creek'. Now they're more of a flat slate blue. You've been staring at them in the mirror behind the good doctor's head for the past ten minutes.

"Your hair seems to have discoloured right down to the folicle."

"Will it ever change back?" You ask.

Your voice sounds a little shaky and uncertain. You steel yourself. They will not see you upset. You are a soldier who has survived (and inflicted) much worse things.

"We'll see."

Carter gives you a lollipop and it excites you more than it should. Wu just keeps making notes on her clipboard. Or maybe she's doodling. You bet she's drawing nasty porn images. Wu's probably freaky like that.

A man is waiting in the hall outside of the examination room. He's in a brown suit and balding. Pockmark scars line his cheeks. You mentally decide he is like a less likable version of Kevin Spacey. When you exit, he inspects you. His eyes linger on your chest too long for your liking.

Oh wait, there's a scar.

You look down. It's not visible through your scrubs. You raise your head and puff out your cheeks. You're used to having your breasts stared at. Still, having it be an official who'd rather look at your tits than your eyes does not bode well.

"Ah. Agent Samson." Carter greets stiffly.

She grips your pale wrist in an almost bruising grip. Wu appears behind her and seems to shoot the man a death glare over your shoulder.

"I'm here to get Ms. Valentine's report."

"Captain." You say.

He stares.

"Captain Valentine. I am a decorated military officer and will be treated as such."

Samson sneers at the correction. You want to punch the look off his face.

"You _were_ a decorated military officer, Captain. We'll see if that title stays."

"Captain Valentine has been under a tremendous amount of stress, Agent Samson. Interviewing her at this point would not be wise. We are still unsure if Wesker programmed any failsafe procedures into her during her imprisonment. For all we know, leaving her alone with anyone could result in death. I recommend giving her a guard at all times for the next forty-eight hours." Doctor Wu speaks up.

It's enough truth and speculation to make him back off. You look to the woman gratefully. She just makes a call.

A pair of guards escort you through the lower levels of the base to an elevator. You turn to inspect their uniforms for nametags. Nothing. They both seem nervous though. You feel it radiating off the younger one in waves.

"It's such an honour to meet you." He finally says in the elevator.

It brings a weak smile to your face.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Private Terrance Dodds. This is Agent Haki Kenei."

Kenei flashes a brilliant smile your way. You like these guys. You don't dare ask how old they are. It will just depress you.

"Kenei, like the runner?" You ask.

"No."

The awkward silence that follows is saved by the ding of the elevator reaching the main floor. You step off without your escort. They scramble after you.

"Captain, what are you doing?"

"I'm hungry. The cafeteria's on this level, right?"

They nod, albeit dumbly. You feel like you might have to hold their hands. The layout of each BSAA base is pretty much the same. The main floor is more open than the others, as this is typically where the press hover for details. You thank whatever non-deity that there aren't any reporter types looking for a scoop. Instead you follow the French-Swahili-English signs to the 'Canteen'.

Holy shit they have a milkshake dispenser.

You grab a tray and hum the Kellis song under your breath. Your fingers drum the invisible keys as the machine whirrs you up a frozen confection.

They have cookies and cream. You may be a little weepy at this new information. Milkshake on tray you make your way to the greasy fried food. You haven't gorged yourself on junk in over two years, salad can go to hell right now.

An apple added to the mess is the compromise you're willing to make. Dodds and Kenei trail after you as you select a seat by the window. It's well into the evening by now.

The milkshake is delicious. It's a mixture of thick, fatty cream and hunks of stale chocolate cookie. It was made with a machine and not with love, but it's just so beautiful. The burger is equally processed and instant and oh so delicious. You make obscene noises as you eat. Dodds shifts uncomfortably in his seat and you can see heat radiating from Kenei's face.

You finish your meal and take the apple with you as you continue on your way upstairs. Back in the elevator, Kenei explains that you're to be kept in a private hospital room for the beginning of your stay.

It's quiet and clean. The sheets are white (easier to bleach) and the itchy blanket a creamy yellow. The hum of machines permeates the air. Carter is in here, she looks weary and beckons you over. You don't even flinch as she stick the IV in you.

"This is just saline with a mild sedative to help you sleep. Your body is dehydrated from all the rigorous activity you've been up to. Goodnight, Captain Valentine."

She exits and you hear the door's lock click shut. Her low voice joins several others before fading off. Once again, you are alone.

The small clock on your bedside reads 1:55 AM. It's mocking you, little bastard.

Exhaustion tugs at your limbs and eyelids, but with each blink you see screaming faces. They've given you a television set in your room. Nothing fancy, but it gets satellite TV from South Africa. You click through the channels, theyr're mostly limited to international news broadcasts, but you manage to find some scripted programming.

A woman with an axe is fighting robots on a submarine. You are instantly grabbed. Wait, isn't that River from Firefly? You reach for the forgotten apple and bite out a large chunk. River fires a gun in the submarine she's in (typical Hollywood) and grabs a young man. She calls him 'John'.

It goes to commercial and informs you that you're watching 'The Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles'.

They made a Terminator TV series? You're pretty sure you hear angels singing. One year you went as Sarah Connor to the STARS Halloween party. No one got the costume except for Chris and Kenneth. Chris only because you had been excitedly telling him about it all week.

Chris.

He's never been good at coping with the job. You wonder how he's doing. He probably needs a hug... and some morphine. You wonder if he's started smoking again.

'cause even you're jonesing for a smoke.

* * *

_Irving's nasally frantic Italian voice beats inside your skull. At least you have a degree of control when keeping an eye on him. Wesker looses your leash just enough to make the occasional murder he commits with your hands that more terrifying. Ricardo is unsure of you, he has not seen your face. He doesn't know your true voice._

_Thus, it surprises him when you hold your hand out when he smokes._

_"What? You want one?"_

_Mechanically, you nod. The cigarettes are long and filtered. Camel brand, you thought they discontinued these._

_You keep the heavy hood up and instead just remove the mask. Il Medico, the plague doctor. (Excella has a great sense of humour like that.) The fastens click and hiss as you disconnect it from your suit._

_The harsh sunlight feels good on your skin and bad on your eyes. You hear Ricardo's little gasp and look to him. Like most men, his expression is hungry as it traces your features._

_"Careful Irving, you might catch flies." You rasp._

_He lights the cigarette between your lips and you inhale the poison. Maybe the slow creeping fingers of lung cancer will kill you._

* * *

_I am Jill's shuffling corpse._

* * *

The needle leaves your vein easily enough. That and the hair clip you stole from Dr. Wu is enough to disable the alarm and lock they have on your window.

Your room is on the eighteenth floor. Zero fucks are given about this fact. Your bare toes are brushing the window ledge when you feel a shudder hammer throughout your body. Cold sweat breaks out over your paler skin and your grip slips with it. The dark ground below blurs and you think for a moment of falling.

That would complicate things. Label you suicidal, also, the whole 'not dying' thing isn't something you want to explain right now.

Still, falls aren't so bad. You've died in worse ways. Your body's reactions seem to lean towards survival as you collapse backwards onto the floor.

The tremors are worse now, your hands shake and your bleary vision catches the light streaming through your door. Somewhere you hear an alarm go off. Light fills your vision once more.

* * *

_Floating. It feels like you're floating. Voices buzz around you and you are in your tank again. Drugged and pathetic, you watch the world through a tiny, yellow-tinted window._

_Wesker spends a lot of his time hand-wringing or bickering on the phone. Other researches come and go. First it's a tall, shaggy-haired asian woman. It's more than once that you see her green eyes peering at you through the glass. She bites her lip and steals files when Wesker isn't around. The more Wesker performs tests on you, the less she's around. Eventually, you stop seeing her._

_Her replacement is curvacious and young. Much too young for Wesker in your opinion. She looks like she should be in college. Her shiny hair is often twisted into a tight bun and she follows Wesker around, begging for approval. Daddy issues, you label it._

_The new woman takes you out of your tank. They don't realise that you've been slowly fighting through the foggy failsafes they give you. Seizing the opportunity, you lunge from the tank. Your muscles scream at the sudden strain, but you're going faster than you ever have. The metal grating scrapes at your bare feet. You keep running._

_You have to get out. It doesn't matter if you run into someone's yard ass-butt naked. Getting away is your priority._

_Wesker tackles you and you feel cold steel dig into your shoulder blades. You scream and bite part of his face off._

_"Clever girl."_

_He crushes your windpipe._

_That's worse than falling out of a window._

* * *

Everything is hazy, but there's weight on your legs and warm light against your face. Your mouth feels scratchy and dry. Moving your eyelids is a herculean effort, so you keep them closed as you ask your visitor a question.

"Where am I?"

"The hospital, Lieutenant Valentine. You went through heavy withdrawals last night. It could have been much worse if one of your guards hadn't come in to check on you." It's Dr. Wu.

"My mouth tastes like barf."

"Vomiting is a common symptom of physical withdrawal."

"How come Carter isn't here if we're getting physical?"

"I'm here to discuss as to why you were trying to jump out the window."

"It was too hot." You smirk.

"Your room is air conditioned."

"After being in a cooled bunker for the past two years, do you really think I want recycled air? Nah, fresh oxygen is the good stuff."

"Why did you take out your IV?" Wu sighs.

"To jimmy the window open. I know what type of security I'm under. The window was alarmed." You shrug.

"Then you were going to stick it back in your vein?"

"Ohh yeah, what's the worst that can happen? A little infection isn't too bad after the whole 'mind control thing'. Hell, I'm not even sure I'm really here. This could just be another fantasy. Infection isn't too bad. I once got stabbed by a rusty knife back in Somalia, around '93. Hot sun, stuck in a concrete hut with nothing but some brandy and dirty bandages to keep myself clean. Maggots eat the rotting flesh nice and good. Fuck, that smelled nasty. Worst thing I ever smelled until the mansion. This guy was taking a bath when the T-Virus kicked in. I was checking the bathroom for extra health sprays, aspirin, shit like that. Boom! Zombie pops up out of the water. He was already half soup by the time I shot his face off... yeah."

You're having a fun time imagining the look of horror spreading across Wu's face at your casual overshare. You vividly remember losing everything you had eaten that day into the fancy toilet at the mansion. Your hair was short then. Better for barfing.

"Can someone cut my hair?"

Wu is silent for a minute before asking, "Why?"

"Proof this is real."

Your blonde hair is sheared into the bob by the end of the day.


	2. Chris: Birds, Snakes, and Airplanes

**Here's a much shorter chapter to show y'all what Chris is up to. This starts at the infamous reveal in RE5 (that we totally didn't see coming, Capcom, you are so great at foreshadowing /sarcasm)**

**I re-watched the Jill cutscenes and really felt the need to describe her from Chris's perspective. Poor guy's got a lot of inner turmoil. Also, the say "alright" like five times in that scene. I almost mentioned that in this story. Almost.**

**Chris, you really need to cheer up, Buddy.**

**We'll get back to Jill next chapter.**

**(As always, reviews are the best. They're even located in a handy box at the bottom of the page! Go on, be creative. Fill that box.)**

* * *

You aren't sure what you expected upon seeing her again. Your heart refills with blood, you can feel it pounding in your ears.

You're standing on the edge of an apocalypse and feel okay for the first time in years.

Because she's alive. There she is. Paler and thinner though.

Unless this is a cruel trick Wesker is playing on you. A clone, a carbon copy made of worms and parasites. You don't let yourself focus on that though. You just try to wake her up. Up, up, back through the rabbit hole, Alice. (She has always looked so good in blue.)

Her movements are like a cat (on speed). Clearly, Wesker's being sharing whatever special sauce he uses for his own quickened pace.

_Jesus, is she hissing at you?_

"Jill! Come on, answer me!" You demand.

Later, shouting such things make you feel embarrassed and childish. Like a little boy stomping his foot and crying for his mother.

Hurting her feels like taking a chunk out of yourself. Your own very nature screams at you. She's probably been screaming internally for a long time. The agonized cry she releases indicates this. The shots of her submachine guns are loose and sporadic. It's like she's trying to miss. That's enough for you. You pull the beetle-like device off her chest. She flails and shouts before collapsing.

You catch her this time. She never hits the ground.

Her brow furrows and pale blue eyes blink disorientedly. Jill's lips part to reveal the same slightly crooked teeth. You can see the freckles on her chin and cheek from this close up. The way her body fits in your arms, her scent buried beneath sweat and leather. It's Jill.

"Chris." She grunts.

Like the soldier she is, she barely winces. Those eyes betray it for you. _Pain, anger, guilt, devotion, resentment_. All of them bubble below the surface.

Instead she smiles weakly and apologizes.

Like her being tortured and enslaved is somehow an inconvenience. _Classic Jill_.

You go throw a variety of frowns as she suggests you just leaving her here. Your mission is getting her back safe. Wesker can fuck the fuck off for all you care anymore. You for one welcome the new world order.

Only you don't and you're being an ass. Jill grabs you and drags you closer to eye level.

"You are our only chance!" (_Don't fuck this up, Redfield_.)

Walking away from her is one of the harder things you've had to do. She pulls Sheva aside and tells her something. You want to ask, but it's probably Jill being protective again.

She will be overly protective of you until the day she dies.

...

Again.

* * *

So, you saved the day and killed the bad guy and all that rocket launcher rigamarole. Instead of relieved, you just feel empty and lost. The compass guiding you just lost its magnetic core. Now, it spins uselessly in all directions.

Fight or flee? Kiss her or kill her? Retire or just end it once and for all?

The thought is a common one and has been for the past two and a half years. To be honest, it popped up more than once before then. You just relied on Jill to slap it out of you.

God. Seeing her in the helicopter. She looked like ten miles of bad road, but still had the strength to hand you a rocket launcher.

It shows new restraint on her behalf. Typically Jill is chomping at the bit to blow shit up. Bases, B.O.W.s, pop cans... all acceptable targets to your partner's lust for explosions.

You wish you could just talk to her. Ask her questions about what happened. Ask her if she thinks Josh has a cute butt. Ask if she blames you.

The higher-ups don't want you potentially triggering her though. For now Jill is being guarded and observed. You want tell them she likes tea before bed and pushes her hair behind her ears when she's nervous. Instead you swallow the words and ask for a beer.

Drinking is something you've avoided since your parents died in a car accident. Your dad was an alcoholic. He used to get into a proper froth before getting particularly mean. It's a trait you've inherited. You're alone though, no one to hurt except yourself.

The nurse looks like she's about to object, but she sees the look in your eyes and returns with some South African brand. You thank her and nurse the poison.

* * *

You have nightmares of watching Jill get tortured and violated by Wesker. The sound of an alarm wakens you from your cold sweat. The clock beside you says it's passed three. You wheel the IV with you as you run down the hall. The orderly on your floor purses her lips at you in irritation.

"What's going on?" You ask, throat dry.

"The blonde woman they brought in is having convulsions."

Tears spring to your eyes and the woman works to look more sympathetic. It's not her fault. She's probably been on her feet all day.

"Is she gonna be okay?" You choke out.

The older woman has no idea, but the alarm stops. You feel like if she did die they'd have the sense to tell you. Thus, you return to your room and stare at the ceiling until the clock says six.


	3. Jill: The Demon in Me

**This is the longest single chapter I've ever written. Go me. There's a lot of spoken exposition in this chapter. There are also some cameos from canon character. It's kinda self-indulgent on my behalf, because I snuck my favourites in. All the ideas in this are just my fanon speculation. I've actually been sitting on this chapter for about a week, but homework has kept me from editing it. **

**The scenes in this are a little disjointed, but the effect is intentional. Jill is slipping in and out of awareness, so she may go from one place and time to another without realizing it.**

**I've placed Raccoon City in Colarado because Capcom fails geography forever. Mid-Western state with a mountain range. Right. Thus, Colarado.**

****Ladyslash warning**: mentions of Jill being Excella's 'plaything'. No rape though.**

**Everything the light touches is Capcom's. The OCs and ideas are my own. The mentions of Jill sleepwalking are a reference to the fanfiction Somnambulist by my friend Thelexhex. You should go check out her stuff.**

**Reviewing is the most awesome thing ever.**

* * *

_"Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing."  
-Tyler Durden_

It's been three days and you still haven't seen any sign of Chris's meat head. Carter managed to procure some P30 out of thin air. Well, the BSAA were sponsored by Tricell. Excella may have seen this coming.

They're weaning you off it little by little and it's driving you insane. You just stare at the wall and try to get your heart to stop pounding so hard that you feel it in your thighs. The anxiety bubbles like thick lava beneath the calm, drugged surface.

They could get anything out of you like this. Pump you full of P30 then tell you to assassinate the president. Tell them lies about things you never did, or worse, the truth about what Wesker made you do. It makes you nauseus. This could still be fake. A cruel trick played on you by Wesker. He wants to break your spirit.

The hair cut helps quell these fears. You run your fingers through the limp cornsilk strands to placate yourself.

You're a VIP here the same way someone like Phil Spector is a VIP. Everyone is awed and terrified of you. You could probably wreck your room and just be given a new one. Not that you would, but sometimes destruction is the only thing that quiets the pounding in your head.

**Kijuju. Kijuju. Kijuju.**

The mantra repeats itself endlessly in your brain. You decide to ask Wu for a book.

"Which one?" She asks.

Wu is always about business. The other shrinks you've met have typically been perkier with their empathy. Wu understands though. Sometimes you just need the silence and assurance that someone's listening. She doesn't ask you any needless questions like 'and how does that make you feel?'. She certainly doesn't spend her time trying not to stare at your tits like that god-awful grief counsellor Irons hired post-Mansion.

"Do you have a copy of Fight Club?"

That makes her crack a smile.

"Thinking of making orange juice bombs?"

"Napalm is a little more complex than kitty litter, gasoline, and diet coke." You drawl.

"You're the expert." She takes off her glasses, "Jill do you really think it's wise to read a Chuck Palahniuk book while I'm giving you a psych evaluation?"

"I think my excellent taste makes me look perfectly sane. Look, Doc, I'm dealing with a lot of repressed memories of things I did. Stuff I didn't want to do. That plus these wonderful hours when I'm barely lucid on the same shit that made me do it... I just need some noise to keep my brain occupied."

"Do you think that reading about dissociative personality disorder will help you come to terms with what happened?"

"Maybe. Maybe I'm just bored."

* * *

"I don't understand why you drink those things. They're super nasty and filled with trans fats." Josh points out.

You're on your second milkshake (strawberry) and shrug. The creamy slush eases the residual dry throat left by P30. Josh volunteered to babysit you today. He has some stitches on his face and burns on his hands, but otherwise he's in the best shape out of the four of you. The smile on his face is easy as he drinks his coffee. He's the good guy, no worries. Nothing he hasn't seen before.

The smile probably hides a thousand nightmares.

"Comfort food." You respond, eyeing your reflection.

You've never been a vain person, but you do miss the proper curvature of your body. It took years to fully appreciate the padding on your ass or the roundness of your thighs and waist. Now that you've got the bikini body of a mid-twenty year-old, you miss it. Milk fat is a good shortcut to bringing you back to a double-D.

"How is it comforting?" Josh asks for probably the second time.

You hesitate before telling him. You typically play things pretty close to the chest. People you know don't typically stay around very long. What's the use of ruining a perfectly good working relationship with personal details? The old Jill would weave some lie about Fifties Nostalgia and re-runs of 'Happy Days'. New Jill? Well, she'll tell Josh.

"Chris used to take me for milkshakes after work on Fridays. When we were first partners, I-uh, was in kind of a bad place. It was just after getting back from Somalia. I took a year and a half off to gather my marbles. Then, I was offered a job in Colorado for some Special Forces unit. I thought 'Hey, why not?' and took it as a spacer between Tours. I wasn't some emaciated waif, but I was still about twenty pounds underweight. Chris and I were partnered up because we were both ex-military. Just kids then. Jesus, I was barely 20. He saw that I was having a hard time with eating and sleeping, so he started feeding me greasy diner food and inviting me over for Twilight Zone marathons. Never thought our lives would turn into a Twilight Zone marathon."

You drift off in a memory.

* * *

_"Redfield, this is your new partner."_

_You followed 'Wesker' into the rifle range. Inside there were two men smoking and laughing. They made bets, one-upping each other over who could get a bullseye. The first, was sleeveless and mulleted. He had a soft Cajun accent and had an unfilitered cigarette clenched between his teeth. He eyed you and Wesker curiously, but cooly. The second man was bigger. Tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was thick and curly, face plain, albeit slightly handsome. He had the 'farm boy' thing going on. You noted his head was almost perfectly rectangular._

_He turned to Wesker with some mixed hostility and confusion. Problem with authority, great. Of course they would pair you with a hothead._

_"What? I have a partner. What about Barry?" Redfield asked._

_"Burton has been given a promotion. He's going to be my partner. We are the senior members of Alpha, after all."_

_"All the more reason for one of you to train the rookie."_

_You jutted your chin out at this, incensed at his obvious disrespect._

_"She's ex-military, just like you. There, you have your conversation starter. I have paper work."_

_You couldn't help the incredulous laugh that escaped your mouth._

_"I'm sorry, but you're ex-military?"_

_"Yeah, what of it?"_

_"Mouthing off to a superior officer like that would get anyone court martialed. I can see why the 'ex' is the key part of that sentence."_

_The other man laughed at this, "Dissed brother."_

_Redfield turned red from his face to his ears. He couldn't manage his temper worth a damn. You smirked at his irritation. Wesker seemed to watch the challenge between the two of you with mild interest. His reaction was similar to that of someone watching an infomercial._

_"Fighter Pilot." He said._

_Surprised, you blinked a little, but maintained eye-contact._

_"Marine. Explosives specialist. Second Lieutenant Valentine."_

_Redfield whistled through his teeth. Impressed._

_"You're barely out of high school, how the fuck did you end up a Second LT?"_

_"Chain of command kept dying." You shrugged._

* * *

"We're going to adjust the speed on the treadmill again." Carter tells you.

You nod through the oxygen mask and keep running. The track below you whirs a little fast and you feel nothing. Not even a burning in your thighs. They could probably boost this bitch to eleven and you'd be able to deal with-

Is that Chris?

Your legs stretch out below you as your neck whips around to catch a glimpse of your partner. He looks terrible. His eyes are sunken and they have him clad in crinkly, green scrubs. The colour reminds you of a toothpaste smear. Chris is a minty person. He used to smoke menthol cigarettes that would get in your clothes and hair. Whenever he was on a long trip, you'd huff Vics Vapo-rub for comfort.

His companion makes your stomach lurch, Agent Samson is chattering away to him like a fanboy. Well, that can potentially come in handy.

It feels as if the floor beneath you has opened up and swallowed you whole.

Actually that's just you being flung off the treadmill. Ass over applecart, you look like a comic genius-slash-moron as you go careening into a table.

"Captain Valentine!"

You hear a door swish open, "Jill!"

You're really going to have to have a nice, long chat with Chris about his damsel problem. Still, you feel as if you're finally getting a glass of water after a long drought. God, you missed him so much. Just the smell of smoke and Irish Spring soothes your frayed nerves. He offers a hand and a worried look. You grab it and walk your hands up his massive arm, eventually pulling him in for an embrace. He seems to stiffen as you bury your face in his massive chest.

"Don't leave me alone anymore." You whisper.

The old Jill would never have appeared this vulnerable around others. It's true, but also an attempt to make yourself more pathetic and small in front of Samson. The less he views you as a threat, the better chance you have of his co-operation.

Samson's smug look makes you want to punch him in the dick, instead you feign fatigue. Chris eyes you warily. He's obviously confused at your behaviour. You watch the gear turn in his head, doubts about who you really are. Relying on any form of non-verbal communication, you stare at him hard before blinking quickly in Samson's direction. He frowns, but you think he understands.

"What can we do for you?" Carter asks.

You almost forgot they were there. Whoops.

Samson seems to be sizing you up. Chris and you haven't always such a physical odd couple. About a year after you took down Sergei in Russia, Chris started beefing up. He didn't even spend much more time in the gym, his metabolism just went "boom".

Now you look like a goddamned dwarf next to him.

"Dr. Wu, it's been over forty-eight hours. I would like to question Captain Valentine if your evaluation allows it." He says.

Wu purses her lips into a half frown. Her eyes flick to Carter for back-up. Carter flounders helplessly for any test they can have you take.

Too late, it would appear. That greasy grin appears on Samson's mug. He motions for you to come with him. You lean against Chris, feigning unsteadyness.

"Do you think I could get dressed properly before my interview?" You ask.

You don't want him staring at your cleavage.

"I could wear a spare uniform." You suggest.

Wu bites the end of her pen, "I think that the comforting precense of her rank would make Captain Valentine have more psychological stability."

You're going to high five her the next chance you have. Chris scratches his chin. He seems to smell that as being bullshit, but Samson looks so pleased to finally have his way that he allows it. Carter takes you to the supply room to get you into a uniform that fits. The feeling of green canvas against your skin and a proper sports bra is awesome. You revel in the sensation. The familiar fit. It feels like you're an eighteen year-old jarhead again. The shaved head, the sun on your back, the grit in your eyes -you never thought you'd miss it. The more things change...

Chris is standing outside -arms folded, hip cocked. He just stares at you for a good long moment.

"You cut your hair."

Self-consciously, you run a hand through the new bob. Its short and fluffy stands tickle your palm. He smiles weakly, then you're led away.

* * *

"So, Captain Valentine, what is it that causes a highschool dropout to join the military?" Your interviewer asks.

Her voice is husky in the way only the French have. It's as if speaking English does physical damage to her vocal chords. The woman's attire is business-professional with just a peek of cleavage. She's attractive for a woman in her late forties, the grey hair at her temples is pulled back into a sleek twist.

You close your eyes to roll them. They've given you a cigarette, so you're on best behaviour. Your life does kind of depend on the results of this.

"I don't see what this has to do with my report. My uncle's a general, when I got arrested he said it was enlist or prison.

"It says here that you were being scouted for Julliard. Music scholarship. That's a big deal. Yet, you threw it all away."

That one does kind of sting. How different would your life be if you bothered to graduate and took the scholarship? You might be playing Carnegie Hall instead of being interrogated right now.

"Stupid kid stuff. I took what I had for granted, preferred the thrill of instant gratification. Plus, I don't know... I was intimidated. I just used the piano for shits and giggles. I used to write songs about my friends. I remember 'Dirty Dan's Donkey Dick' was quite the hit at parties."

The interviewer rubs her temples. You shoot her and Samson a winning smile.

"I can play it for you later."

"No thanks. Let's get back to the night you went AWOL. At roughly 23:10 on the evening of November the twenty-second, you pushed Albert Wesker out of a window and down the side of a cliff. You managed to survive the fall, how?"

You ruminate on your words carefully before answering.

"I don't remember much of what happened, just the feeling of falling and the pain of glass. I might have died for all I know. Wesker is-was- in the business of raising the dead after all."

They don't seem fully satisfied, but they let you continue.

"From what I'm aware of, I was saved in order to be a test subject and host for Wesker's new parasite. However, he found abnormalities in my DNA. I'm not sure if Carter has reported or even found this in her tests. I'm infected with the T-Virus."

Both shove away from you quickly. You keep seated but raise your hands non-threateningly.

"No, no, no. See, I was infected years ago. It mutated in my body. Instead of being a zombie, I'm actually a human carrier of the T-Virus vaccine. My blood can make a cure!"

Samson and his partner whisper to each other for a minute before leaving you alone. You sigh and twiddle your thumbs.

"Carter's report checks out. You realise that this changes everything." The boss tells Samson.

The man nods dumbly. They have a living cure. Jill Valentine is the cure. They can end bioterror for good and finally make the world safe.

"I'm calling Ashcroft. We'll need to spin this as positive PR immediately. Go get the rest of Valentine's report."

"I've done horrible things. I didn't have any control of my actions, but -God- I saw everything. The villagers caught on and sent their children away... mostly. There was one boy, no older than fifteen, he... he was clinging to me and begging me to make it stop. I couldn't stop, I looked him in the eyes as the parasite spread. Did you know that parasites climb into snails eyes' to attract birds? It was like that. Fuck."

You press your palms to your own eyes feeling the phantom horror of worms crawling in your veins. You take a sip of the offered ice water. They can throw you in jail. You deserve to rot for the things that you've done. So many people are dead and you killed them.

"Sometimes he would put scenarios in my head, make me think I was fighting for my life, and I'd wake up and see them. His failed experiments. He tested them against me. I'd win... most of the time."

"What does that mean?" Your interviewer asks.

"He cuts away to see what grows back." Escapes your lips.

The interviewer shares a sharp look with Samson. She sighs and stands up.

"I think we're done for today. Dodds and Kenei will be here to escort you back to your room shortly."

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name." You tell her.

"LesProux. Agent Karena LesProux. It's been an honour speaking to you, Captain."

You laugh. They can go fuck themselves.

* * *

It's well past midnight when you put Fight Club down and settle in for the night. You're a slow fiction reader, and it helps pass the time. You change out of your uniform and back into the hospital pyjamas.

The steady stream of weaning P30 and mild sedative in your IV make it easier to sleep.

* * *

There's someone in your bedroom. The key card makes a noise and the door clicks quietly. High heels click on the linoleum floor as the figure approaches. You keep still and snuffle slightly. You'll feign sleep until aware of the threat.

Hair tickles your nose as the figure (a woman) leans over you and sticks a needle into your arm. In a flash, you have her arm twisted behind her back as you pin her to the wall.

"What the fuck are you doing in my room?" You hiss into her ear.

She's taller than you by a few inches and has hidden muscle in her slender body. She's wiry and agile, you force her into the wall harder. Letting your guard down would be unwise.

"I'm trying to get a sample of your blood for a vaccine." She mumbles against drywall.

"Bullshit. Who sent you?"

"The BSAA."

"This is the BSAA!"

"The president?"

"Are you even trying?!"

"Interpol..?" She tries again.

"Jesus Christ. I'm calling the guards. 'Help, I've been attacked by an inept assassin!'"

You let your guard down and she tips her head back to bust your nose while simaltaneously elbowing you in the stomach. The wind is knocked out of you. Your attacker pushes you to the ground with her knees pinning your arms.

Blood and your vision stream in pain and confusion.

"Shut up. I'm here to take blood, not give you anything. I wouldn't have saved your ass just to kill you now."

The cartilage in your nose snaps back into place painfully and the blood seeps to a stop. _Thanks, T-Virus, you're swell. _With the pain gone, you blink away tears to look your assailant in the eye. The murky dark colour doesn't look familiar, but the hair does.

"You're the lanky lady. Hey! You were working with Wesker."

She sticks her fist into your mouth to shut you up.

"If you bite me I will gouge your eyes out. You know as well as I do that eyes are the worst to grow back. Eyes and fingers actually. All those nerves." She trails off.

You widen your jaw to avoid teeth grazes. Growing your eyes back is something you never want to do again.

"Now, I work for... well, everyone at one point or another. Really, I'm just a collector of viruses and their antidotes. It's better that the samples are kept in a safe cache in case of emergency. Not that there's any emergency I can think of that will be solved by the G-Virus..."

"Wuhtuhwuh." You moan.

"I'm taking my hand out of your mouth. This is gross."

"Gwoth."

She hisses and wipes her hands on the maroon scrubs she's wearing before inspecting the teeth marks. You hack and lick your stretched lips.

"Butterfly." You pant.

That catches her attention.

"So, you've heard of me?"

"Well, you're wearing one on your hair pin. Ego before reason, I guess?"

She digs her knees into your arms. You hiss and flex to try and get her off. She rolls her eyes and bends so you two are eye to eye.

"Cut it out Vermillion. Tell you what, in exchange for your blood I'll do you a favour."

"...Are you trying to proposition me?"

The other woman clicks her tongue before laughing breathlessly.

"If that's what you want in exchange. Can't say I'm surprised, there have been rumours over the years. Excella apparently got quite the milage out of you."

Heat creeps up your face and chest, you turn your head away in embarrassment and shame. The other woman watches you with a kind of smug curiousity.

* * *

_"Is this alright, Jill?" Excella's lips brushed your ear._

_Free of the P30, if only for a few minutes, you gave a low moan as the other woman palmed your breast. She was so gentle with you, almost reverent._

_"To touch a goddess like this... soon the world will be rebuilt in your image. Sweet Gaia." You let her kiss you._

_Any touch that wasn't Wesker testing the limits of your healing. Fire, ice, water, dogs. Excella's quiet caresses were a welcome reprieve._

* * *

The room is still dark, but you manage to catch the depths of murky green eyes. You're so tired of fighting. Of waking up in this room to the smell of your own fear and weakness.

"Can you get me outside?" You ask.

"Depends if you've ever jumped out of a window."

You level her with a glare. She laughs dorkily.

"Stupid question. Okay, let's go outside."

"This isn't going to end with me as street pizza, is it?"

She purses her red lips and doesn't say anything. Instead she pulls a strange-looking gun out of her pants. The look she shoots you is a dare to say anything.

"...Or are you just happy to see me?"

You can't help it.

"I should have just knocked you out." She groans.

The taller woman instructs you to hold onto her waist as you both lean out the window. The fresh air buffets your face and you wonder why the alarm hasn't gone off. She must have disabled it for her own escape. Wait a minute.

"Wait a minute... if you're pointing that directly upward won't it just fall back down the way it came? I'm pretty sure there is dick all to grapple on the roof."

The percussion of a gunshot then the whizzing of cable are what you hear before lurching out of the window. You cling to the other woman desperately and give a tiny shriek. Her experience helps you both climb over the stucco lip of the rooftop. Little squeaky wheezes keep escaping your mouth as you gape at her incredulously. You open and close your fists before waving your hands about.

"How did that even work?"

"I sold my soul to the devil for an exemption from the rules of physics... also rocket launchers." She shrugs.

Shakily, you stand and stare at the roof. It's littered with solar panels that make you cringe. You just hope they aren't hooked up to any kind of space laser that could fry everyone to shit.

"Remember the Terragrigia Panic?"

"Mmhm. I was cashing in some overdue vacation time. Somewhere off the grid. Didn't hear about it until a few weeks later. It was relaxing."

"Oh yeah? You get medical benefits?"

"Hah. Don't need 'em."

"Ada, what are you?"

"You want to know what you are."

"Well, duh. I was trying to be polite."

"Short answer, you're a human tyrant. Congratulations on keeping your genitals, but you're probably sterile."

The bluntness hits you like a blow to the stomach. You remember the first time you saw a Tyrant. Wesker's beloved failure of blue skin and an exposed heart. You blew that abomination sky high with a rocket launcher. Maybe this is some kind of divine irony. Or Wesker-irony, which isn't divine but would really like to be.

Ada's dark eyes watch you cautiously, waiting for an outburst. Any kind of emotional response is pushed down. Down, down deep into the place where you keep the pain. It's a pretty big box at this point.

"I'm going to tell you a story that I've never told anyone else." She says, sitting atop a solar panel.

"When I was a little girl living in San Francisco I watched my grandmother die of a wasting illness. Ever since then I've been afraid of two things. Growing old, and dying. So, I decided that I'd find the cure for both. I got into Berkeley for Biology and was recruited out of school into Umbrella's Cosmetics department. They were experimenting on beauty products made from this rare flower. We did a lot of animal testing. It made the animals start to act strange. They would get necrotizing fasciitis and become aggressive, so we shelved the product. It was supposed to regenerate skin cells and make them healthier. Following a hunch, I decided to start injecting a few dogs with smaller doses. It didn't affect them at all, that is until the head of my department had them put to sleep. They came back, but they looked fine. They were healthier than before."

You're not sure if you believe her or not. Ada Wong is a notorious liar, but a shitty one at that. This might just be the truth. If that's so then it explains her predicament, and yours. Hell, it explains Wesker.

"Albert Wesker bullied a sample out of me and from what I know, he altered it to fit his own needs. As you know, his variation was unstable. My version was perfect. I stopped aging after I died. The healing factor is amazing. I think Ollivera may have found a stash I was saving and given it to you. That plus Nemesis's DNA turned you. Theoretically, of course."

Silence surrounds the two of you. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes. Great, you're a mutant who can't have kids. Then this... spy... scientist woman tells you that she's partly responsible for your freaky immortality.

"Is this why you want a sample of my blood?"

"Maybe."

She tosses something that bounces off your head and lands in your lap. A box of Camels. You could kiss her. A lighter follows, but this time you catch it.

"Blasphemy. Only men are allowed to carry lighters." You tease.

After lighting your cigarette you say,

"Do people ever ask where you were during Raccoon City?"

You inhale the poisonous smoke into your lungs. It's relaxing, cathartic, deadly. The buzzing in your brain seems to quiet for a moment. Those thoughts of turning into a giant naked man by contentment.

She's on her feet with an expression of bored observation.

"Yeah. Usually I have to make up some lie about grocery shopping in Tampa and hearing about it on the radio or whatever. Men use the weirdest shit to break the ice. And, it's not like I can just tell a mark 'Yes. I was in Raccoon City, patching a handsome stranger's bullet wound and ducking a mutated child molester. I'd love some more wine.'"

The laugh that escapes you is bitter. Not many people get it. Not even Chris understands. The hell on Earth you endured. Being the one having to try and hold everything together while watching yourself fall apart.

"I love the questions that come with it. 'Did you see a zombie?' 'Have you ever had to kill one?' and of course, 'So, you're THAT Jill Valentine'."

"Mmhm." Her words seems farther away.

"Hey, what did you put in my smokes...? You cheeky bitch!" Your speech begins to slur.

"Fuck. Why is she so heavy?"

You awake to sunlight poring over your face. You flail and attack at your sheets. Strange dreams of crimson butterflies eating your skin plagued your mind all night. There's something else, murky eyes and the faint smell of Chanel.

"Apparently, you're quite the sleepwalker." It's Wu.

"Look, Doc, it's not that I don't like you, it's just that waking up to you in my room every day is getting old."

She ignores you.

"Sleepwalking is common especially among those suffering extreme stress. You're lucky the nurse found you, said you were almost at the roof."

"Hmm." There's a box of Camels cigarettes on your nightstand.

* * *

**I fucking love Ada Wong. That said, I'm incorporating her not-death as a canon death. Either way, a long fall or being shoved into a generator isn't going to be something you just walk away from. Thus, I've combined that and her lack of aging (she's supposed to be 40 in RE6) to make this little headcanon.**

**Feed the box at the bottom. It's hungry.**

** -B**


	4. Chris: Bloodstains on the Carpet

**This will probably piss some people off, but I've written Chris as homosexual in this series. That said, I am a firm believer in the fluidity of human sexuality and that it's more about the person than what's between their legs that you fall in love with. Why make Chris gay? It's a pretty popular fanon, and I thought I'd pay homage to his Live-Action actor Wentworth Miller for his lovely portrayal of Mr. Redfield in Afterlife. (Gasp, she acknowledged the PWS Anderson movies, for shame!) It adds for an interesting dynamic, plus, to have been partners with Jill for 15 years and to have not hit that? Please.**

**This chapter has sex in it, so we're up to the M Rating. *Golf clap* Yaaaayyy. It's het sex and not very graphic. Feel free to skip it if you like. I focused more on the emotional aspects than the physical ones.**

**There are probably some typos in here, I don't have a Beta and there's only so much spellcheck and myself can catch.**

**Thank you to all who have reviewed so far. Other readers, I'd love to hear from you. **

* * *

"_You know how they say you only hurt the ones you love? Well, it works both ways."_

-Fight Club

Jill's no longer on arrest. That's good. You're still avoiding her though. Being around those moonlike eyes makes your teeth itch. She seems appropriately befuddled by your absence and assuming it's due to official business and paper work. Soon enough she'll sniff you out and confront you. Until then, you're getting pretty friendly with the custodians and their closets.

Which is hilariously ironic when you think of it.

_("Where's Chris?"_

_"Oh, he's in the closet."_

_"To his grandparents, yeah.")_

Jill isn't the only woman you're ducking. Your cellphone is currently filled with messages from your increasingly irate younger sister. She wants to know about the mission, but Jill's not-dead-ness is still under wraps. You should probably tell her soon. You don't think Africa is ready for the full fury of Claire Emily Redfield. You wouldn't be surprised if she has already booked a flight to Democratic Republic of Congo. Coach with a gun stuffed in her carry-on.

Samson has been your saviour in your avoidance. The little douche seems to see you as the sole White Hero Guy of all bioterror. Let alone that Jill's BOW success rate and kill count being triple yours. He clearly has some internalized misogyny. You would know, you're still getting therapy for that. Which involves talking to people -something you don't really want to do right now.

Sheva is your anchor and you're beginning to (usually) feel like a selfish ass. She's a strong kid though, bounced back almost the day after.

"Sheva, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two, why?"

You wince and whistle. Her golden eyes twitch in confusion.

Time is measured in pre and post-Mansion to you. Thus, Sheva will forever be twelve years old in your eyes. She's as old as Wesker's goddaughter; the tiny one who clung to his long legs and sold them Girl Scout cookies.

Sherry. That's her name. Claire still hangs around with her on some occasions. You've seen her maybe twice in ten years. From what you remember she's still small and has huge blue eyes that look perpetually runny. God, she must be what...?

Twenty-two.

"That's pretty young." You say as you sink into your salad.

* * *

You've been having night terrors and waking up to broken lights and bloody arms. You don't remember cutting yourself, but the cuts are getting deeper. It's when you wake up feeling dizzy that you schedule an appointment with the doctors. Perhaps Wesker has been controlling you at night from beyond the grave.

The thought terrifies you more than most things. His long willowy fingers plucking apart your persona, your memories. Except, in the dreams you are Jill. Those fingers you once found so erotic have your neck in a crushing grip.

(Jill always said that your obsession with Wesker's hands was creepy.)

The long sleeved jacket comes off as you slink into Carter's office. Her sandy eyebrows reach her hairline and she purses her lips.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Three days."

"Chris, there are other ways to deal with your feelings. People love you."

"I'm not the one doing it... not intentionally. I keep waking up to find myself like this."

Her face becomes more serious. She nods and wipes your arms with antiseptic and takes a sample of your blood. They'll be able to trace any nanites and at least see if there's some kind of infection. She prescribes sleeping pills and says that it would be best if your sleeping patterns were observed.

You tell her you'll do it later in the week and that the thought of being monitored is too much on your fragile psyche right now.

"We'll have Wu decide that." She says.

Great, another headshrinker. Just what you need. You'll probably spend the entire session sobbing uncontrollably. The same issues will come up as usual. Your sexuality, the repressive nature of your Catholic grandparents and military father, your parents' death and raising your sister, the Mansion, rinse repeat. You wonder how Jill's coping with therapy.

The sessions after the Mansion were required. From what you heard, the psychiatrist considered Jill to be possibly sociopathic. She was "too cold" in her reporting. Right, a woman's too emotional and she's hysterical, too cold and she's a sociopath. You need to be the right combination of heartfelt and professional all the time. God forbid they let people cope in their own way.

Jill isn't cold. She was just brought up as a soldier. All facts, no emotional details needed. Jill expresses everything through her hands. Jill lives in her hands. She says they're her smartest feature and redeeming quality. You've always called her a kinesthetic genius. She can disarm bombs and play almost any song on piano if she hears it. She plays with her hair when she's upset and flattens her palms when anxious.

You can't stop thinking about her. Dreaming about her. The part of you that's gotten used to the negative space she used to inhabit is confused by her presence. The half that misses her just wants to squeeze her tight. But, you're afraid. What if you reach for her and she shatters into panes of falling glass. You're still sitting on the floor of that room staring out over a cliff. She fell over an hour ago.

* * *

The tread back to your room is a leisurely one. Amber sunlight illuminates the dust motes dancing in the recirculated air of the hall. You pause by the window to watch as Sheva and some children from Kijuju play a skipping game outside. Thinking of these poor children and their lost parents makes your heart feel like it's stuck in a door. Feeling woozy, you slip into your bedroom.

Sharp breaths alert you of another person's presence. You don't have time to cry out as you're pinned to the door by a much smaller person.

"You've been avoiding me." Jill says.

You look anywhere but her eyes. She shoves into you harder. A gasp escapes you with a huff. She still isn't satisfied with your lack of an answer, so she drags your neck forward and down. Your eyes meet hers for the first time since you got off the helicopter. Her face and neck are flushed with anger. Voluminous eyes look like they're about to overflow with pale blue-green water. Her lips are red and chapped, pupils big and dark. Blonde hair falls in front of her face messily. You've seen her like this before.

She's... she's horny.

The truth will set you free.

"I've missed you so much that I can't bear to be around you." You rasp.

A palm smacks loudly against the frame by your shoulder. She lurches forward with her own head and claims your mouth with hers. It's awkward, you're out of practice and your teeth clack together unpleasantly. You two need to relearn each other, feel each other out. Your lips meld together after a few head tilts and sloppily laid apologies. You grab at her hips and ass and drag her upwards around your waist. She groans as her groin skates up your abdomen. The sound makes your stomach clench and the blood rush south. Jill reaches to pat at your arousal. You pant against her mouth as your hips rock. Little whimpers escape you both.

"I've missed you too." She says with her hands and mouth.

Deft fingers unzip and unfurl your pants and belt. There's a humming in your veins that tells you exactly how many hours it has been. Yes, there have been flings and even shadows of relationships since Jill's death. Men mostly, but her absence gave you a craving for curves. No matter how hard you searched though, you could never find the complete package. The right thighs would be attached to a shorter torso, or an unrecognizable face.

This Jill. You need to know her perfections. She's mouthing a line from your navel to your nuts and you stop her. The look she shoots you is livid.

"I want to touch you first." You say without breath.

"I haven't had cock in two years, Chris; you probably haven't had any in two weeks. Tops."

It makes you laugh as you drag her to her feet and dot her face with hard kisses. You pick her up. She barely weighs a thing as you drop her onto your bed. The cargo pants she's wearing are kicked off in her eagerness. You bury your head between her legs. Your hands grip the leaner flesh of her thighs, it'll probably leave bruises. You want them to. You want to leave your marks on her body like she has left hers on your soul.

She swears with colour and vigor as you devour her. Nimble hands and strong thighs squeeze your head so hard you're afraid it'll pop. You lick at her as she calms down. It's a start and she seems antsy to have you properly inside her. The connection is something you've missed.

Maybe the bridge between your bodies can fix the gaps in your separated lives?

Your pants are still around your ankles when you sink into her. She gasps and scrabbles at your back with claws that shred. On foot is rooted on the dimples of your back while the other heel buries itself into the flesh of your ass. You push her shirt up to suckle and play with her breasts.

She hisses and pulls you closer. You pull your own shirt off with some effort before working at hers. Between breaths and sticky kisses you manage to strip yourselves bare and switch positions. You lie behind her on your side and enter her again. This time you can tease her with your hands easier. Her hair tickles your chest as her head tips back. She's shuddering and keening. It feels so fucking good. You pound her into exhaustion then finish inside her. Her legs wrap around you, keeping your body in place.

The sun crosses the room, stirring up dust and the smell of sex. Instead of hammering the noise out of your brain, it's back worse than ever. It's like a bad hangover. Jill's half-asleep and scratching at your stubbly chest hair.

She's half on top of you as intimate as two people can be, yet you feel... you feel nothing. There have been moments in the past. Small things like helping with her bra that have felt more meaningful. She loves the smell of you after a run. You once licked peanut butter off her chin's cleft. Those were moments of peace and connection.

This isn't the first time you two have clung to each other for comfort in the long nights. The first time you broke the personal-professional barrier with sex was just after you got back from the woods. In the following weeks you tried to differentiate the pieces of Umbrella's plot from your own fractured mind. Fits of laughter and anger were not uncommon during this time. You found a lead and gave Jill an encoded message to come visit you. She had to know what you knew. Instead, you ended up fucking her against your bedroom door, then handing her a slip of paper. She shivered under you deliciously as you shared cigarettes and plans to infiltrate Umbrella's Parisian headquarters. You'd go first and establish a base of operations. She would leave two weeks later and arrive in France through a complex series of flights landing in Spain, Portugal, and Belgium.

"_Jill. About the sex…" You said._

"_Don't worry about it, Chris. We both like men. So far as I see this was just two partners giving each other what they needed. Happens all the time."_

_She straightened her hair in the reflection of your window before leaving. You called her house two hours after she left to hear her breathy answer of, 'Valentine', before hanging up. She had made it home safely._

* * *

This was a terrible idea.


	5. Jill: Nothing in It

__**Nice positive response from the last chapter-not. Well, there was a lack of any response actually. I know at least fifty people read it. Come on guys, provide some input.**

**The song Jill plays on the piano in this chapter is 'Where is My Mind' by The Pixies. You probably know the song from the movie Fight Club. (Hooray for sticking to a theme!). Jill's version sounds similar to the cover done by Sunday Girl. For just the piano cover I'd recommend the version done by Maxience Cyrin.**

**The ending quote is also from Fight Club, but the opening one is from Palakniuk's Choke. **

**More flashbacks and character cameos in this chapter. Sherry Birkin, Brian Irons, Marvin Branaugh, and Leon S Kennedy are Resident Evil 2 alumni. Rita and Alyssa Ashcroft are from Resident Evil Outbreak. All of these are property of Capcom, I'm merely playing in their sandbox.**

**Describing Leon was the most fun I had with this chapter.**

**How about that RE6, eh?**

**Still UnBeta'd.**

* * *

_"More and more, it feels like I'm doing a really bad impersonation of myself__."_

-Choke (Chuck Palakniuk)

You awake in a puddle of sex and sweat. Chris has since moved you to free the circulation in his legs. The years haven't turned him into too much of a scumbag, he's brought you coffee and since left. It's cold. You wonder how long you've been out. More importantly, you wonder where the fuck the fresh scabs on Chris's arms are from.

Ugh. You need a shower. Your hand reaches for the mug and pauses. A thought occurs. You're a human-tyrant. What would happen if you were to try and do the hand knife thing? You stare at your fingers and try to will them into changing. Instead they just wiggle at you and you sneeze.

The walk of shame is easier when you're in a room with a shower. It surprises you that Chris's room is less fancy than yours. There are bruises on your hips. You press into them, enjoying the little give and twinge of pain. The healing factor doesn't count for blood vessels apparently. That or if can tell the difference between lethal and non-lethal.

You want to test it. Chris has a razor in his room that he's already got crusted blood on. This is how people get HIV, but you press the blades against your throat and nick the artery.

Shit, there's blood going everywhere. You're going to have to clean this up to avoid some very awkward conversations. Your head feels light and you watch the stream of the shower making your spray of blood swirl around the drain. The skin and muscle knits itself back together and you can almost feel your arteries tightening to accomadate the loss. You can feel the pain in your bones as your body rushes to replenish the lost blood.

Okay, just because you can do it doesn't mean you should. It's suddenly too bright in the bathroom. You twist the knobs off and look for some paper towels to mop the blood off the curtain. First, you wrap one of the hospital's white towels around you. They use white because you can bleach the shit out of them (Rebecca once told you). You catch your reflection in the mirror and feel like crying.

Milky eyes stare back at you from almost grey eyelids. Red veins are stark like webs beneath your thighs. You open your mouth and stare at jagged teeth. Every muscle on your abdomen ripples with the pained breaths you take. Ass to the floor, you collapse and begin to sob. You're a monster. He turned you into this monster.

* * *

_You hated April Inspections because, it meant Irons had to venture out of his office. Typically the man was cooped up in the highest part of the building. (Masturbating or stuffing dead animals or something. Irons was a creepy motherfucker.) Thus, during April Inspections, the female members of the department would be told to hide in the copy room by their immediate supervisors. Those who complained about sex discrimination and demanded to stay during the inspections quickly ended up changing their minds and going home. _

_Thus, it was customary for Marvin to bring the women of the RCPD doughnuts to make them feel better about hiding from their boss._

_You were one of the women who insisted upon being present for inspection. That was one of the more violating experiences of your short life. The man's eyes clung to your breasts as his greasy breath puffed clouds against your face. Chris stepped forward with his arms on his hips to provide you with a protective barrier. Regularly, this kind of action would be irritating, but at that time you were just grateful. You spent the rest of the day wedged between one co-worker with your ass to the wall as Irons went over the STARS budget. Wesker, for his part, made a habit of herding Irons away from you and Sandra (Bravo Team's medic). Sandra was older though and didn't have much to worry about._

_Wesker's niece on the other hand, was a different story. Sherry's private school was a few blocks away and she frequently stopped by the station for Wesker to take her home. It was surprisingly often that you'd stumble across the kid crawling into air vents and suits of armor._

_"The hell are you doing?" You asked, more bewildered than angry._

_"Looking for secret passages." She said._

_"Why?"_

_"Never hurts to be prepared." The kid shrugged._

_For what, you had no idea. In hindsight, Birkin was a smart kid. Considering the time you almost wet yourself because you couldn't find the spade key behind the goddamn fountain. It was then that you reminded yourself to practice more complex locks for your mastery. That situation hasn't repeated (yet), but finding secret passages would have been helpful at that point in your life._

_With an empty bladder and lack of concerned thoughts about the adolescent roaming the halls, you found yourself back at the cardboard desk you made yourself in the copy room. Upon entering you found Pam(a 911 operator) and Rita(one of the newer Officers) milling by the printer._

_"He's apparently gone for the day." You told them._

_Their shoulders sagged in relief. Being stuck around the smell of ink and mildew for days wore on the nerves._

_You gathered your things and headed towards the STARS office. You had reports to hand in. Wesker was standing outside the door. His goddaughter's pale hand was clutched in his tightly. He turned up to look at you. There was something in his expression you could not be fair he was wearing sunglasses. It was like four-thirty in the spring time. How was he not bumping into walls?_

_"Captain." You saluted._

_He smirked, "At ease."_

_"Leaving for the night, Wesker?"_

_"Yes, we're going get some pizza, then head home and watch 'Fairy Tale'." Wesker almost winced as he spoke._

_Sherry was playing with a Rubix cube. You gave her an uneasy wave. Kids always confused you. She tugged at Wesker's vest and whispered something to him._

_"Thank you for reminding me Sherry. Jill, effective Monday, STARS is to start taking these experimental energy supplements. Umbrella, our sponsors, has concocted some special performance enhancers to deal with crime."_

_"Did you just say experimental?"_

_"Slip of the tongue."_

_He and Sherry left in a hurry. The bottle seemed to beg you to take its contents. You checked the side effects. (Drowsiness, headaches, nausea, dizziness, rare cases of hand inflammation.)_

_Take two tablets in the morning unless directed otherwise._

_What was the worst that could happen?_

* * *

_(Albert Wesker, you fucking asshole.)_

* * *

You awake on the floor to a clean bathroom and beige-pink flesh. The relief brings you to tears. You wonder how long you've been out. Does anyone know you're here? Not wanting to wait around and be found ass-butt naked, you get up and leave the bathroom. There's a change of clothing on the freshly made bed. Maybe Chris came back and left them for you while the shower was running. You get the feeling it wasn't him though. If it were Chris, he would have stuck his head in the shower to make seal noises at you and tell you of the new clothes.

Or, at least, the old Chris would have.

The thought bounces around your skull as you redress. Looking at the pile of clothing makes you pause. Beneath the underwear is a hardcover book. Curiously, you lift it to eye-level.

'My Last Escape' by Jill Valentine. What. You turn the book over to stare at the back's description. There's praise for the refreshing, engaging compilation. It's on the fucking New York Times' Bestseller list. You flip to 'About the Author' and read in increasing incredulity.

It reads; **'Jill Valentine was one of the titans of anti-bioterrorist group the B.S.A.A. She was originally born in Cincinnati, Ohio and was raised by her father. In her teen years, Jill joined the military and was decorated for both honour and bravery. After that, Jill was a member of the Raccoon City Special Tactics and Rescue Squad (STARS) Her journals of the Raccoon City incident provide a degree of realism and terror unimaginable. Jill Valentine died in November of 2006.' **

You frown. Someone published your journal entries from Raccoon City. Why hasn't anyone told you this? Not only that, but you're a bestseller.

* * *

"The fuck is this?" You wave the book at Wu.

"It's a book."

"Wow, your astute observations are staggering. Tell me my diagnosis again, Doc."

"It's the book that you wrote. Surprise." Wu humours you.

"So, you put this on my bed?"

She looks confused.

"No. I wasn't in your room."

"That's a nice change. Musta been Chris then." You shrug.

"Are you upset that the book was published?"

"Not really, I guess. It feels kind of like a violation of my privacy you know? Having your diaries published is something every teenager is afraid of. Though I think Livejournal changed that. Who is the money going to, and who arranged it for publication?"

"The proceeds have been going to the B.S.A.A. and charities that provide shelter and vaccines for Bio-Terror affected areas. Chris and your uncle signed away the rights, I think it was a writer by the name of S.D. Perry who ended up stitching the journals together and adding commentary. It's kind of a biography about you as well."

You stare at Wu. She's a little flushed from talking so quickly. You sigh and grab a pen off her desk.

"You want me to sign your copy, don't you?"

"I've been waiting to ask for two weeks."

You let them die. Joseph, Brad, Kenneth, Marvin, Raymond, Excella, Doug. Each name and face is a brand upon your mind. You do not show these mental tallies. The invisible dog tags you've collected over the years feel like lead on your chest.

* * *

Wandering is something that's finally allowed and you take the time to explore the West African branch. It's nowhere near as swanky as the European BSAA HQ, nor is it as prone to terrorist attack as the North American. It's kind of nice, actually. The bare concrete exterior and office feel reminds you of late 1960s architecture. There's a courtyard outside with a nice natural bamboo fountain. You're glad it's got more of a wood theme. You have had it with Gothic stone decorations. Sometimes you'll catch a glimpse of Chris out there sitting with Sheva. He's typically quiet and thoughtful. She seems to respect his need for space.

You're trying to respect it, but your need for comfort and answers are making you want to drive his face through a brick wall.

So, nothing new.

* * *

Your favourite part of the entire headquarters is located in the press lobby. It's part hotel restaurant, part auditorium. Because of this, it has a stage for presentations, interviews, and live musical performances. See also; there's a grand piano.

It's almost shyly that your fingers dance across the ivory and black keys. They're like the teeth of a familiar smile that seems to be contagious. You stand and crack your fingers. Still standing, you tentatively press on the E.

The key sounds right, but you play chopsticks just to be sure. The restaurant is all but deserted at this time of day. Only one man seems to be sitting at the bar with his back to you. The kitchen staff are more interested in getting the cleaning done before the evening rush.

It's been so long. You're not sure what you want to play. Not Moonlight Sonata that's for sure. You finger the E key before slanting to A Major.

There seems to be a song in your hands that your head can't keep up with. Like rain, the notes pour out of you.

It's then that you recognize the song and almost laugh.

"With your feet in the air and your head on the ground. Try this trick and spin it, yeah. Your head will collapse if there's nothing in it, and you'll ask yourself. Where is my mind?"

You don't see the woman materialize from behind the bar to meet with the man or the furtive, rushed kisses they exchange. For once your mind just turns off and loses itself in the music. You close your eyes and see starbursts behind them.

* * *

_"I'll fucking kill you, Wesker!" You scream through your own blood._

_"A lofty ambition Jill. I've always admired that in you." He said as he carved another chunk out of your face._

_"Jesus, Albert, what does this have to do with our research?" Excella said._

_"Fear, Excella is just a powerful weapon as any. It inspires obedience. Isn't that right, Jill? She'd say yes, but I've cut out her tongue."_

* * *

_The men claw at you and scream as you drop sample after sample of slithering black sludge onto their bodies. You watch it slither and write up into their orifices. Their eyes turn black. Everything is black._

* * *

Hands are covering yours. Your nails are cracked and bleeding. The hands are sandy-warm and scarred along the fingertips. The rest is completely smooth. You've been crying as your cheeks are wet. The man's talking to you, but it feels like there are cups over your ears. His voice is hoarse and low. His figure is long and broad with a slouch that speaks of emotional wear and tear. A tiny dusting of freckles from the African sun provide a barrier between the fuzzy caterpillars he calls eyebrows. A crooked beak juts under this bridge, parting the curtain of his long bangs. Tiny grey eyes peek out at you wearily. To complete the package is the poutiest, pinkest pair of lips you've ever seen. Sniff inspection will probably identify the secret as raspberry lipgloss (for men he insists). There's a scrub of peach fuzz on his chin, as if a visit from the puberty fairy will make him appear any less pretty.

"Agent Kennedy." You say.

His lips twitch into a kind of a sneer that could be a smile.

"Nice to see you above six feet, Valentine."

People have told you before that you and Leon could be siblings. Just because you're both blonde women, doesn't mean you all look the same. Saying this was a good way to make Chris laugh.

"Do you need help getting back to your room?"

"Sorry, Leon, yes please. I'm having a hard time concentrating."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Women often find me distracting." His eyebrows flex.

You laugh and push him on the shoulder. The gesture would appear as flirting to an outsider. That ship has long since sailed. Leon prefers his women tall, dark and likely to point a gun at him. You also have the frequent urge to smack him. Something about his affable personality and smart-ass snark.

That and he spends more time on his appearance than any woman you know.

"So why are you here?" You ask.

He seems surprised with the bluntness; it's something people forget about you for some reason. Maybe the whole being dead thing softened their memories of your personality.

"I'm here to escort you back to Washington. They want to manufacture a T-Virus cure a little closer to home. That and it'll be easier to process your paperwork from officially deceased back to living. Rumor from up top is that they're planning on making your return some huge announcement and giving you a hero's welcome. Typical wag the dog stuff -not that you don't deserve it."

You hum and roll your suddenly dry tongue around in your mouth.

"Can we get some water?"

"Yeah, sure thing. Are you alright?"

Leon's the type of person who genuinely likes helping people. It's a part of him that never wavers no matter the situation. Unlike Chris and yourself, he doesn't see it as 'just a job'. However, his scrutiny is unwanted and you bat away the hand he presses to your face.

"Goddamn, give me some breathing space."

He flinches as if struck, but backs off and keeps a respectful distance. You stop at a water cooler where you drink five paper cups dry. The elevator ride back to your room is a blur.

* * *

You dream of Wesker using my ribcage like a xylophone. He plays the beat of a local hymn, but sings the lyrics to 'Daisy Bell'. You watch my own organs writhe and pulse as a swarm of red butterflies swoops in to eat what flesh I have left. When they've eaten everything of you, your body regrows. You are bigger, stronger, and have a huge herniated heart pumping on the outside of your chest. Chris is waiting at your bedside.

"It's a boy!" He says.

He clings to your hand and you return the pressure. He starts to scream. Your hands are like knives and you've just cut him through to the bone. Coagulated blood pours out of his hand and turns into writhing black worms.

* * *

You awaken with my spine arched against my mattress. For a few moments you are too petrified to move.

* * *

Leon leads you to a board room near the top floor. A sudden bout of deja vu strikes you as you pass the window. It feels as if you've been here, but from the outside looking in. Utterly ridiculous. It's probably just more strange dreams you've had.

"Ready?" He says.

You nod, too nauseous to speak.

The room is filled with a mix of suits, friendly and non. There are some neutrals as well, people you don't really know. Plenty of the faces are alien; you've been out of the game for years after all. Two sets of three hundred and sixty five is a political eon.

"Captain Valentine." Several rise to greet you.

"Such an honour to meet you."

"I love your book."

A throat clears, subduing the chatter. At the head of the table stands a tall blonde woman with bright red lipstick.

"Ms. Valentine, I am Alyssa Ashcroft, Chief of Press Representation for the BSAA."

You shake her hand. Hers is a familiar face. She was one of the few reporters with the gonads to tell the truth about Umbrella's Bio-Terror involvement from the start. Of course she was recruited for the BSAA. Now she's more of an agent and PR control. She works hard to spin stories into making you look like the good guys. Ashcroft will be quite helpful in making what looks like a hate crime into a justified event. If she's on your side then you're in good hands.

"We intend on painting you as a tortured and strong war hero. See Jill, people like you. Your book is a best seller. There are talks to make a motion picture."

You open your mouth to object.

"Which we promptly shut down. Far too soon. It's poor taste to make films about such recent events, especially since they were pitching it as a love story."

"Between who?"

She doesn't answer, but you see several people exchange looks. You notice Chris is nowhere to be found.

"So, as soon as we get you back and settled in Washington, we're going to have an official press release followed by the announcement of your book tour. I have the ears of several talk shows. Your current status is still under wraps for obvious reasons."

"Such as?" You say.

Alyssa seems to have forgotten that you are capable of responding and pauses long enough for bearded man near Carter to pipe up with an answer.

"Your blood is precious. There's no doubt that if found out, terrorists will pursue you. The antibodies you carry can also be used to enhance or stabilize other viruses. Plus, were they to make a cure from your blood and sell it on the black market, the payout would be lucrative."

Great. You're just waiting for people to stick more needles in you. You are Gaia, watching helpless as her terrain is mined and pumped for resources leaving you an empty shell. The dream of the butterflies passes through your subconscious.

Leon rubs your back. You must look ill again.

"Jill, the BSAA and United States Government are on your side. Both will do whatever it takes to keep you safe." A man says.

You and Leon share a wry smile. The US Government couldn't keep a college student related to the President safe. You'll still sleep with a pistol beneath your pillow.

"But, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Before we can release you we must develop the vaccine."

Cold sweat starts pooling at your temples. You remember Claire's troubled brow after visiting Birkin. The government was (is still?) keeping her under protection and testing the effects of the G-Virus on her.

_"They keep her cooped up like a lab rat. I swear, she gets thinner every time I visit." Claire had said._

Your breaths begin to shallow. Memories of being flooded with Avain Flu come flooding back and you know the others are staring. You grab Leon's jacket roughly and plead to him with haunted eyes.

"Don't let him cut me open again."

His cherry chapstick lips part in assurance, but there are cups over your ears.

* * *

Under sedative again. The weight of Chris sitting on your bedside is comforting. He's probably a hallucination. Still, you find the need to ask him.

"_If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?" _


	6. Chris: So Come On Home

**A/N: Thanks to the continued support of thelexhex and Katsumi the miko. Your reviews and support are always inspiring.**

**I'm not too happy with this chapter. It feels like a lot of flip-flopping, but it's basically Chris getting drunk and then getting called out on his shit. Also, it's a transitional chapter. The next Jill installment will be her on a plane to Washington.**

**Fear not gentle readers, they will reunite. I want to give them both time for personal growth before being able to re-bond with each other. **

* * *

**I received some confusion about Chris's sexuality based on the past few chapters. I tried to make it clear when I was writing it, but I understand that it's a complex topic. Here's a more expanded explanation. For further insight, I'd suggest looking at the Nerdfighter video about gender and sexuality.**

**Plenty of people who identify as homosexual have had previous experiences of heterosexual sex, or still engage in it while identifying as Kinsey 6 gay. I'm trying to show the fluidity of sexuality. Some people begin their life as hetero and end it as gay or vice-versa. Chris and Jill's case is giving each other physical comfort/relief while engaged in tense situations or too lazy to look for a hook-up. I've also written that Chris has very homophobic, conservative grandparents, so is still closeted in some sense. A lot of his het experiences could be him "trying to be straight".**

* * *

"_Today is the sort of day where the sun only comes up to humiliate you."_

* * *

The knocking on your door is making your skull throb. You half-fall out of bed to attempt for the knob, then just give up.

"It's open." You say.

The door opens, but the approaching figure is backlit and hard to see. You squint up at the person, it's a man from what you can tell. Tall-ish.

"You weren't at the board meeting."

Oh, it's Leon. That's cool. He bends to meet you on the floor and his face comes into focus. He hasn't shaved in awhile and right now he looks so ridiculously attractive to you it hurts. He's saying something about Washington and you being a giant gaping asshole, but you're just paying attention to his lips forming the words.

"You've got a pretty mouth."

"If you're going to start quoting Deliverance, I may have to punch you."

"Fair enough. But you're like really pretty."

"Thanks."

"So, you agree with me, you think you're really pretty?"

"Mean Girls is acceptable. Do you want off the floor at all? I'm going out on a limb and assuming you're drunk right now."

"Is your astute observation due to my slurring or the bottle of Jack by the bedside?"

"Your breath, actually."

Leon plops onto the floor next to you. You worm across the floor so your head is resting against his knee. Being near him is comforting. He's a dweeb, but he's also one of your best friends. Leon is the guy you call to come and help you move out at three in the morning. It's unfortunate that his attempts at making friends usually end up with him getting a knife to the back or watching someone he cares for die.

He asked you why that was once.

You said, "That's because you care about everyone, Leon, and everyone dies."

"So, why are you drinking by yourself in the dark instead of supporting your BBFSPWOBASGB?"

"The fuck was that noise you just made?" You say.

"It's an acronym." He pauses.

"I got that. What does it mean?"

"Best Friend Slash Partner With Occasional Benefits And Sometimes Gay Beard."

"You can just say Jill."

Leon shrugs.

"Sorry. The 'J Word' has been off-limits for like two years, it'll take me a while to get used to it being back in syndication."

You hum and press your cheekbone against the ball of his knee. He shifts his legs to avoid getting pins and needles in his limbs.

"You are really pretty though."

"We've established this. We have also established that you are drunk and lonely-"

"And that you're like some kind of straight daywalker... gaywalker. Freaking tease."

"Thanks Chris. I don't get enough of this kind of objectification at work."

"You are most welcome."

"You're reminding me of Krauser right now. That isn't a compliment."

"Jack had a nice ass, but predatory gays are creepy."

"I want you to think long and hard about what hypocrisy teaches us."

You laugh and drop off his lap onto the floor. Your head hurts as you stare up at him.

"I'm not okay." You say, dead serious.

"I know. The doctors told me to keep an eye on you because you've been self-harming."

"Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"They're obligated to tell loved ones if a person is a danger to themself."

"This is gonna be more than therapy, isn't it?"

"Probably."

You groan and hold your face in both hands. You hear Leon get to his feet. His hands pry yours away and he stoops to scoop you up off the floor. You two must look ridiculous, you're much bigger than he is, but he carries you to your bed.

"It's been requested that I remove the alcohol from your room." He says.

Leon scratches at his jaw, feeling uncomfortable with the order. You know that he sees no problem in using grain and grape poison to fill the hole left by Raccoon City. You've tugged him out of similar dark places. He's just returning the favour.

Angry-drunk-Chris doesn't agree though.

"Don't you fucking touch my stuff, Leon."

He sighs.

You aim a fist at his jaw. He doesn't dodge, but grabs your wrist and pins you. His forehead bashes into yours and it makes your eyes stream.

"Get your shit together. Jill leaves tomorrow. The least you can do is say 'Goodbye'. She died, not you. Start fucking acting like it."

Your face crumples and the tears come pouring along with runny snot. Your jaw hurts from gasping for so much air. Leon tugs you against his chest and rocks you softly, shushing.

"I want to be strong for her so bad, Leon, but I'm not. I'm weak. I can't protect her. I can't protect anybody. What am I even doing here?" You manage between hiccups and sobs.

"Jill loves you. She needs you with her. Jesus, Chris, she proved that she would rather die than live without you. Yet, here you are, she's living and without you."

You cover your face with a giant hand and try to wipe as much water and mucus off as you can. You huff and turn onto your side.

"Thanks, Buddy. Maybe one day you'll find a girl who'll die protecting you, too."

"Little late for that." He mutters.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Get some sleep."

Leon gives your thigh a slap and leaves. You're probably going to have a killer hangover and a swollen face tomorrow morning. You reach for your phone to set the alarm fairly early. You need to talk to Jill before she's gone.

* * *

You find her packing in her room the next morning. You look like you've been crying all night (because you have) and she looks like she hasn't slept at all.

"Hey."

You don't know what else to say. She doesn't look at you or even respond. Anger radiates off her in waves.

"Hey."

"I need to apologi-"

"Do you hate me?"

You gape at her. She turns to you and you see a haunted look in her eyes that wasn't there before.

"For what I've done. Do you hate me, Chris? Is that why you can't look at me?"

You want to say 'no'. The truth is, you haven't really thought about it. You've spent the past few weeks avoiding thinking about it. Jill is a victim to you, seeing her as a villain is like a sick perversion.

"I don't hate you." Is all you can say.

"Why won't you look at me?"

"Because all I see is you and Wesker falling out of that window," You sigh, "and me being powerless to stop it."

"I made my choice. The world is a better place with you in it. Me? Well, we know how well that goes."

"Don't say that!" You say.

"It's the truth. Do you think Wesker would use you as some tool of mass destruction? Chris, he used my blood to build a fucking virus. Then, after torturing me for a year, he made me torture others. You? You're too pure for that."

"Jill, you didn't... that wasn't your intention. You were being controlled."

"If the military had asked me to do it... I probably would have. Orders before reason. I'm a soldier, Chris, that's why I'm so much easier to command. And now I've got to go back to Washington and smile for the cameras, because I'm a war hero instead of a war criminal."

Her words take time to digest. You sit in a slump on her lumpy mattress in deep thought. She stops folding and packing to sit next to you and light a cigarette. She breathes in deeply, something that you've missed in the years she's been gone.

"Since when do you smoke?" You ask.

She's silent and observing the wall through the haze of her smoke. Her moon-eyes shift to you and she chews the end before answering.

"Irving would give them to me. It was the only way I could really protest my captivity. Slow death through cancer sticks. Plus, the smell kinda reminded me of...," She looks at you, "Working in S.T.A.R.S."

Ah, the 90s, when smoking indoors wasn't outlawed yet. Barry had his desk moved away from yours because you smoked like a chimney and he was trying to quit. Jill complained about the stench and the yellow stain it left on the wall. You told her 'tough titties' because you were an asshole who liked tormenting your rookie partner. Nevertheless, you lost the taste for nicotine in 2000 and haven't lit a cigarette since.

Here's Jill with a lit butt between her pouty lips. She looks like she belongs somewhere else, a cafe in Paris or a noir film maybe.

"Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi." You sigh.

She looks at you. You can't tell her thoughts by the colour of her eyes like you used to. She presses a hand to your cheek.

"You'll have to learn how to. 'cause... Babe, I've given you everything. I gave my life for yours. And- I... I can't. I'm all dried up. There's nothing left for me to give you. You need someone who can listen and help you heal. That person isn't me. Not anymore."

Tears cloud your eyes. You can't breathe and your throat hurts.

"Jill please." You beg.

"Okay. You fuck me, then snub me. You love me, you hate me. You show me a sensitive side, then you turn into a total asshole. Is this a pretty accurate description of our relationship."

Your face crumples deeper because you know it's true. She just came back to life and you've been jerking her around like some hook-up. She doesn't deserve that kind of confusion or insecuri-

Wait a minute.

"Did you just quote Fight Club at me?"

"Yup. Marla says it better than I do though. By the way, your sister knows you're avoiding her. Thanks for supporting me in not getting court martialed by the way. I guess I'll see you in Washington. Unless you decide to fuck off to Europe again without telling anyone."

She punches you in the shoulder. Hard. Then starts packing again.

* * *

_"Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi." - I can't live without you._

__**(Chris did live in Paris for a year.)**

**Let me know what you think.**

**-B**


	7. Jill: Talk Like an Open Book

**Hey Gang. I'm not dead. I have been slowly chipping away at other things. School mostly. However, thanks in part to the glowing review from Andromeda Rising (and the continued support of Thelexhex) this chapter is done today. Jill faces some new challenges in the form of RE6 continuity and an appearance by the final member of the 'Big Four'.**

**Kudos if you catch which movie Jill watches on the plane. It's my favourite and it happened to come out the year that this is set in (2009).**

**We'll catch up with Chris next chapter. He's probably... doing something involved with booze. Yaaay.**

**Reviews really do inspire me to keep writing.**

**-B**

* * *

Telling Chris off hurt you. You've lost him and all his support (what support?). It aches, but it also lifts a great weight off your shoulders. You don't feel the unease of tiptoeing around his moody aura, or seeking it out for a conversation.

Still, you miss him. The present company could be worse. Leon is slumped against the tiny window. His headphones are in and his chin is perched on his fist. Across from you is the quote-unquote trip manager. She's been yammering at you non-stop since you boarded.

"And, after your third night in New Hampshire, we'll take your book tour North towards Canada. You have a lot of Canadian readers. We'll get a picture of you eating maple syrup with baby seals, then move on down towards the West Coast. There are only a few stops in the prairies before we make it to Alberta. We'll have a little break in Edmonton where-"

"-Brandy. I'm going to have to stop you there. Why the fuck are we making such a big deal about my dead white ass rising from the grave? Is this some kind of dog-wagging for a fubar situation in the White House?"

She huffs and folds her arms before remembering that she's holding a clipboard. You can feel Leon's lidded gaze on you from his seat. You just focus your eyes on the peppy intern and wait for her to crack.

"Well, Miss-"

"Captain."

"Captain Valentine. The BSAA has had a few... unfortunate occurrences in the past few months. Mostly due to lack of funding, we've been unable to gain the proper resources or get to situations on time. Having a new spokesperson, one so prestigious as yourself, is a good way to win back the public's confidence."

She's a nervous talker, clearly. You sit back in your seat and digest what she's just said.

"I'm a puppet. Nothing but a little doll to smile and tell the masses to buy more BSAA brand bullshit. Good to know."

You'd smile too wide, but it's not in your frigid nature. Instead you stand and excuse yourself to the bathroom.

* * *

The contents of your stomach swirl before your eyes as you rest your forehead on the edge of the bowl. A knocking raises your head and a wave of nausea makes you regret.

"What?"

Leon shuffles in behind you and checks your hair for any excess vomit. You sigh and let your eyes trace the ceiling as he wipes your mouth and offers you some Listerine.

"This president's actually a pretty good guy. For what it's worth." He says.

You huff. Leon would call a crack dealer a 'pretty good guy'. He has somehow managed to keep his sense of naive optimism through about five viral outbreaks. You're a little jealous. Mind you, you were never much of an optimist before you joined the military.

"Are there gonna be more tests?" You ask.

Leon pushes his hair away from his forehead and sighs.

"I don't know."

You let your shoulders sag and bite a thumbnail. The two of you exit the bathroom. Absently, you wonder if Brandy thinks the two of you are an item. Perhaps she spent the last five minutes fantasizing about Leon bending you over the sink. Instead, you find her reading an Ann Rule book and pointedly ignoring you.

No matter, this private jet comes with in-flight movies. You flip through the channels looking for the least action-y movie you can find. You settle on the kids channel, because the movie has giant food and a monkey named Steve.

You awaken Leon with your laughter. He snuffles and starts as if embarrassed to be caught sleeping. Caught off guard in general. There's probably a reason why the guy looks so tired all the time. You have a sneaking suspicion it may have to do with the dozen tiny bottles of booze he has already consumed.

Hey, you all have your coping mechanisms.

* * *

The plane touches down in Washington and you're barely off the runway when you're accosted by armed guards. They've given you a full escort to the private facility you're going to be living at.

See also: Another fucking lab.

After having a grand total of twenty minutes in the sun, the thought of another fluorescent box makes your skin itch. You scratch at the skin on your wrist until it bleeds. Leon grabs your hand to make you stop. Your brow furrows, and you're about to tell him to mind his own business when you notice the suits giving you a wary look.

Right, this song and dance is all about the evaluations. Maybe if they deem you crazy enough, you won't have to go on some shitty book tour.

But, if that happens they might lock you up in a tighter box. One with fewer windows than Wesker's. You nod apologetically.

The car slows to a crawl and you crane your neck to look out the window. The facility looks almost identical to the one you just left. Barbed wire fences, cold concrete, and a tiny brass plaque noting that it's a private location and government property.

The door closest to you is pulled open quickly with a snap. The suit is polite enough not to grab you while he waits. You slip out of the vehicle with a squeak of leather upholstery.

"Thanks." You say at the offered hand.

You still brush it off and fall into step between two of the secret service men. Leon elbows his way closer to you. The conscious effort is appreciated. He acts like a shield for you until you reach the entrance of the building. Leon gives a little wave, as he doesn't have clearance to move forward.

"If you see him, let my old partner know that he's an ass." You say.

Leon gives a little salute and moves his lips into some semblance of a smirk. Fingers wrap around your arm and you are brought inside.

The building itself is darker and has a warmer colour scheme than you imagined. A man waits for you in the foyer. First, you are given a pat down and a run through a security gate. Yeah, like you totally smuggled a gun past your armed companions.

"Just a security precaution, I assure you." The man says.

His voice is smooth and deep. He has dark hair and a goatee, that plus his bolo tie and white suit make him look like a snake oil salesman.

"Captain Valentine. So nice to finally meet you. I am the director of this laboratory, Derek Simmons. We just received your blood work and found... interesting results."

Ugh. He makes you want to bathe. Your threshold for creepy weirdoes is pretty low in comparison to say... Claire, who has had to deal with incestuous rape monsters and twincestuous murder... twins, but this dude, ranks high. His gaze feels like sticky oil on your skin and you're pretty sure he might have a van full of candy.

"Sir." You manage to say.

You shake his hand, and then slip it into your pocket in order to wipe off his germs stealthily. It probably looks more like your scratching yourself or furiously masturbating. That might make for an interesting psych profile.

All these buildings look the same after a while. The grey carpet, the tinted windows, the hallways filled with an endless supply of locked doors. You briefly wonder if you've been sucked into some kind of vortex that's punishing you for all you've done wrong. Any moment now and you'll hear an air raid siren, next the walls will start bleeding and Simmons will turn into a demon of your subconscious. Or maybe a giant wiener.

"Can I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee? Fresca?"

"Water please."

As you walk down the hall your arms sway at your sides. Self-consciously, you stiffen them like a march. The other suits seem to have all disappeared at this point. You don't know if it makes you feel more or less safe. You could take Simmons in a fight, but having witnesses around makes you more comfortable. Despite everything, you believe in the impulse to do good.

"Now, we've come to understand that your surviving of the second Mansion incident and your supposed fall, was due to viral infection."

Fuck. Shit fucking fuckity fuck.

Fuck.

Your eyes are the size of saucers as you stare at him. You must be gaping like a complete idiot. Simmons just smirks.

"Yes, the tests may have proven inconclusive to your doctors at the BSAA, however here we have previous experience with the effects of infection on human hosts. Tissue regeneration and healing are two properties that we are looking into."

There are others like you. Dread sinks to the pit of your stomach. This is a testing facility. They've been testing tissue regeneration on infected humans. Medical testing. On humans. You think of those documentaries on animal testing where they electrocute monkeys or cut the crowns of dogs' skulls off.

On humans.

A chill runs through your body like an electrical wire. You feel thirsty. Didn't he offer you water? Maybe Carter left some P30 in your bag. The feeling of calm accompanied by a lack of responsibility for your actions sounds great right about now. You could smash his head through the glass, or maybe rip his heart out like the second Indiana Jones' movie.

"Your water." Simmons hands you a bottle.

You sip it cautiously and feel the hydrating effects calming you. He's led you to an elevator.

"Our labs are downstairs. It's easier to keep clean down there."

The hairs on the back of your neck probably resemble hedgehog quills. Leon gave you a cellphone before he left, but you're sure your being monitored. Maybe you should try Morse code of an SOS or smoke signals.

Despite the spaciousness of the elevator, you feel sweaty and enclosed.

"Are you claustrophobic, Captain?" Simmons asks.

"Didn't used to be." You supply.

He looks a little perturbed, as close to concerned as you're probably going to get.

"We'll take the stairs back, if you'd like."

"That would be great."

The elevator dings and then bobs before opening to a white polished hall. This looks more like the labs your used to. Various scientists idle behind the glass walls of the rooms you walk past. Simmons leads you through the little maze of hallways and cubicles. The room to hallway ratio is better than the Spencer Mansion anyway. Or the alleys in Raccoon City. Seriously, they could have had twice the amount of business space if they had just removed the damn alleys.

"It's interesting to see a survivor of T infection. We've only been able to sample and experiment with the G Virus. Unfortunately, some of our previous employees kept their own samples and got involved in an incident."

"Hmn?" Your stomach sinks.

"Wilpharma. One of Birkin's underlings was the head researcher for the company. There was an outbreak in the town of Harvardville."

The name rings a bell. You remember it had a great doughnut shop near the highway and the closest airport to Raccoon City. The town's economy was based on layover tourism and logging. Richard lived there before moving in with a roommate to Raccoon. He said that the housing was cheaper, but the gas spent on the commute ultimately made the move worth it.

"Did they 'cleanse' the city?" You ask.

"No. They managed to contain the incident. One of the government's more _lowly_ agents got sent in." He says the word 'agent' with such loathing that you side-eye him.

You wonder what the fuck his problem is, but the thought is cut off by the door that you're standing in front of. Simmons' fingers are on the doorknob when he turns and flashes a look of irritation down the hallway.

You hear a shrill cry and suddenly your vision is blocked by a waterfall of auburn hair. Strong arms encapsulate your body. You're flush against a wall of curve and muscle. Claire. Harsh dry kisses are pressed all over your face. Your forehead, your eyes, the cleft of your chin. Your hands paw gently at her back before instinct kicks in and you sink your fingers into the flesh of her back.

"Jill. Oh, Jillybean." She gasps.

Her scent is so familiar, and for the first time since you can't remember, you feel safe. Protected. It's now that the dam around your terror crumbles and you're able to feel. Fear. Nausea. Grief. All come crashing down on you in waves. Like a heartbroken child, you cling to the younger woman and sob.

"Shhh. It's okay. I'm here now."

Claire's cooing into your hair and rocking your bodies slightly. The bear hug she grips you in doesn't loosen in the slightest. You wonder how she's managed to stay so whole when her brother is so broken. Claire is the rock out of all the survivors. She copes with her own grief by helping others through theirs. Yet, each night, you know she goes home to an empty apartment.

"I am going to murder Chris for not calling me about this." She murmurs and you choke out a wet laugh.

You're still sobbing hysterically and barely notice the murmured voices to your left. At the moment your body is on autopilot and paying attention to the political clusterfuck you're trapped in.

So, of course you're a little startled to see Simmons chatting with a newcomer. The girl is short and has hair to match. It, along with her skin, glows a sickly yellow under the halogens. She gives you a tight wave and a smile.

"Hi. I'm Sherry Birkin." She's a twitchy thing, and she looks at Claire like she's god.

You blink away tears and scrub at your face, suddenly you're self-conscious. Simmons has seen this whole exchange, but seems bored and disinterested instead of moustache-twirlingly diabolical.

"Sherry here is host to the G Virus. It's how we managed to identify the markers in your blood." Simmons explains, but the whole thing sounds a little oversimplified to you, "You two are going to be taking some tests together."

Your grip on Claire's hand becomes much tighter.


	8. Chris: Can Anybody Find Me?

**A/N: I lied, but Chris chapters are always easier to write. The end of this chapter is based again, on the RE5 Viral campaign. The beginning is mainly my speculation and headcanon.**

**THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND STEF. SHE IS MY RE6 BRO WHO HELPED ME BEAT THE GAME AND WANTS TO SEE MORE RYFIELD FANWORKS. **

**Some notes:**

**-Chris is listening to 'Somebody to Love' by Queen.**

**- I've chosen Pierre as Chris's middle name because it means 'rock'. Chris/Boulders 5EVer.**

**-Those of you who've played Outbreak will recognize Kevin Ryman.**

**-Claire's daughter, Allison will be making more of an appearance in the next Jill chapter. I've given her the name Allison as an homage to both her voice and live action actors: Alyson Court and Ali Larter.**

* * *

_You got up at 5:15 every morning in order to have time to eat breakfast, and then jog around the neighbourhood before work. STARS members typically arrived at 7, barring any emergency or new leads on a case._

_Being a Special Forces unit, you were kind of a medium between the Detectives and the Military. If the shit ever hit the fan, you would be the first line of defense, however, when the shit wasn't hitting the fan there was a lack of stuff to do. Most of what you did were fundraisers and drills. Still, the money was good and the company was top notch._

_After your jog, you would shower. You left the door to the bathroom open so you could hear Freddie croon in the den._

_"Lord somebody. Oh somebody. Can anybody find meeeee somebody to love?" You sang along._

_In those days you felt more like a whole person and less like a Frankenstein. The sum of your parts equaled Chris Redfield. Marksman, pilot, flamingly closeted homosexual, fishing aficionado__._

_You grooved along to the CD as you dried yourself off. It was Friday and your turn to pick up the doughnuts, so you had to cut your jog a little short this morning. No matter. You slapped at your chest and made monkey noises at yourself in the mirror before applying a thick coating of gel to your palm. The spikey look was in this year and helped cancel out your natural curl._

* * *

_By 7, you were hopping up the steps of the RCPD building. Doughnuts in one hand, you stood to the side to allow the woman walking in behind you to the door first. Holding it open, you smiled and said good morning._

_"Morning Marvin." The man at the desk looked up._

_"Oh baby, there better be a fritter in there for me."_

_"Mm, you know it." You held the box open._

_Marvin laughed and took the doughnut before waving you off. It never hurt to be in the good books of the man who really ran the place. Without Marvin keeping track of the station's ins and outs, you'd all be lost._

_Still humming Queen, you punched ascended the steps and used the right key to get into the hall that housed the STARS office. The door was plain wood with a key card entry._

_You tapped your hip against the card reader and it turned green with a beep (you kept the card in your wallet). Balancing the box, you stepped into the office._

_"Find me somebody to looovvveee." You sang tunelessly._

_"There better be some doughnuts to go with that falsetto." Barry grunted._

_Kenneth was standing closest to the door and had the disheveled look of a man who had just pulled an all-nighter. He cracked his neck and gave a little shudder._

_"Some sugar and fat to feed the soul, Ken?" You offered._

_"Shit, Redfield. I'm trying to watch my cholesterol. There better not be a Boston crème in there."_

_"Whoops." You weren't sorry at all._

_He took the doughnut with a weary sigh, but looked much better after having a bite._

_"Find any leads?" You asked._

_He shook his head and focused on the doughnut. You didn't want to ruin the simple pleasure for him, so you move on with your box of joy._

_"Honey glaze for Edward because he's boring."_

_Grunt._

_"Chocolate dip for Kevin."_

_"Thanks Chris."_

_"Sour cream glaze for Richard, 'cause he's a classy mofo."_

_"Damn skippy."_

_"Blueberry jelly for El Jefe."_

_"Not technically your boss, Redfield."_

_You maneuvered past the empty desk. Wesker said he was training a new medic, but for now they'd be between members. From what he'd heard, fucking Ryman had applied again._

_STARS was a one-Kevin operation._

_"Forrest, take your nasty-ass coconut ring."_

_"Eat my coconut ring, Redfield."_

_You stuck out your tongue, "Time and place."_

_"Gross you two. I'm eating." Edward called._

_"'phobe."_

_"Here's the apple fritter for the double-B."_

_"Thanks Kiddo." Barry ate most of it in one bite._

_"Another sour cream for Bradley and a toffee cream for our beloved Joseph."_

_You approached your own desk. Across from you sat your tightwad of a partner already hunched over her paperwork. You moved to stand behind her and rest an elbow on her head._

_"Hey girl, I got you a honey cruller."_

_Jill looked up at you balefully from her computer screen. She opened her mouth and began chomping._

_"I'm not putting my hand anywhere near that garbage dispenser."_

_She frowned at you, but grabbed the doughnut from your hand. The flakes of sugar coated her fingers. You read the beginning of her report._

_"You've gotten this much done already?"_

_"Been here since six."_

_"Keener." Then with more empathy, "Have you been sleeping all right?"_

_"I manage. Getting laid regularly certainly helps."_

_"Damn girl. So you and Adam decided to make it official?"_

_She made a comment less noise. You decided to dig into your sprinkle doughnut in her silence. In the box there was one treat left for your uncharacteristically tardy boss._

_"Wesker been in yet?"_

_"He called. Said he had to take his niece home from school."_

_"The concern is noted though." A voice came from behind._

_Wesker was shrugging his windbreaker off and pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead. Grass coloured eyes blinked at you as he reached into the box. He bit into the strawberry jelly savagely and a bit of crimson jam dribbled down his chin. You were hypnotized as he licked it from his fingers and cleft._

_"Kid okay?"_

_"Just the flu."_

* * *

_"Each morning I get up I die a little. Can barely stand on my feet. Take a look at myself in the mirror and cry."_

You still think Freddie's voice sounds better through vinyl than through your iPod dock, but you don't have the energy to dig your record player out of storage.

The ceiling fan makes rhythmic patterns in the air above you. A lack of blinking has left your eyes dry and blurry. It lets you see the motion and trace it back to the centre.

Two weeks since you got back. You're officially on 'mental health watch'. Sheva volunteered for babysitting duty. Frankly, you think she just wants to get the fuck out of dodge. A change of scenery certainly helped you bounce back after your first outbreak.

Paris, 1998. You remember sitting down in cafes and just forgetting the world. Sitting on the edge of a canal with a copy of Fried Green Tomatoes made you forget mansions filled with corpses. You haven't felt that relaxed since.

To be fair, Paris wasn't all that relaxing when you were trying to hunt down the Umbrella CEO. That was after Jill showed up though.

Jill.

Shit.

Your phone rings. Killer Queen. You sigh, it's Claire's ringtone. Up pops a picture of her smooching a tiny pink face. You hold the receiver to your ear and press answer.

"Christopher Pierre Redfield. If you are still sulking on your sofa, then I will come over and kick your ass."

"You're really going to drive the five hours from Pittsburgh to Phili just to kick my ass?"

"It's closer than Antarctica or Paris."

"Touche."

There's a lull in the conversation where you can hear her stirring a pot. She's making pasta.

"How is she?"

You don't have to ask who specifically, but Claire plays coy.

"Allie's great, she's making lots of noises that are beginning to resemble words. I think 'Gack' means 'why must you patronize me with this childish trash?', or more likely it means 'cat'."

"Eloquent."

"Jill's doing a good impression of alright. I think you did more harm than help though."

"Gee, thanks."

"You need that little reality check, asshole. She's a f-firetrucking mess. You blowing her off metaphorically and physically really did a number on her self-esteem."

You snort breathlessly at Claire censoring herself for the first time in her life.

"Missed an 'A Word' there, Sis."

She can tell you're dancing around the real topic.

"Eat a cock."

"Time and place. I could use a sandwich."

"Gross."

The two of you share a laugh about how little you've both actually aged. The silence afterwards resonates over the receiver. She's worried about you. Your sister with a life and family still takes the time to check in on your loser ass every two days. Though, that could in part be due to you disappearing for months at a time and needing someone to keep track.

"Give Jill my love, even if it isn't specifically from me."

You hear Claire murmur something to someone on her side, "Chris says he loves you." She says audibly.

"Is that her?" You ask.

"Nah, it's Kevin."

"Tell Ryman he's a filthy old dog who needs to stay away from my baby sister."

"He says he loves you too bro."

"Fucker."

"Love you Chris."

"Love you too. Have a good night."

"Take a shower."

She hangs up and you inspect your armpits. They're pretty ripe. She has a point. You drop your phone onto your sofa and wander into the bathroom. The pipes creak as you begin to fill the tub. You strip and wait for the water to line the bottom. After a moment of consideration, you decide to add some bubble bath Leon got you for your birthday.

(Even manly men need to feel pampered.)

With a contented breath, you sank against the porcelain rim and felt the warm water soothe your muscles and joints.

* * *

_"Chrrisss." The name is hissed in your ear by a serpent._

_The snake gags around its own tail, slowly consuming itself. Its eyes are golden and lidded. The serpent's body squeezes your rib cage. You reach into your holster for your knife. With effort, you drive the blade into the beast's flesh. Out of the skin pours thick black worms. They spray against the walls and floor. Everything is sticky and black._

_Kijuju. Kijuju. Kijuju._

_You can't breathe._

* * *

Arms drag you out of the cold tub water. Your thrashing limbs feel heavy and numb as you press them against your intruder.

Sheva's amber eyes are huge and terrified as she holds you above the surface.

You gasp and stare at the bathroom around you. The word 'Kijuju' is painted on the walls in what looks like Sharpie. You check your wrists and see no new wounds.

Great, your subconscious is trying to drown you now.

* * *

**Chris gets really insecure because his chapters get less reviews. You should help boost his self-esteem.**


	9. Jill: Going Through the Motions

**Thank you to all my reviewers. **

**I didn't mean for Ada to become such an important character in this story. It just kinda developed that way. **

**Not really much to say about this one. Resident Evil 6 kinda fueled my viral-mutt theory, so that's what Jill is going through right now.**

**The lyrics in this chapter are from the Buffy episode 'Once More with Feeling'. The song is Overture/Going Through the Motions. Other references are to Choke, The Avengers, and Ellen.**

**Reviews are nice.**

* * *

Your palms are sweating and it feels like there are cups over your ears. You watch a man behind a camera count down from three on his fingers. A light flashes on and you hear the applause and music signalling your arrival. You stagger across the stage in wedge heels and a pantsuit. You feel like your arms are swinging dumbly at your sides.

The host has grey hair and glasses. His daily news show has high ratings and a devoted fanbase. The man specialises in poltical satire, but often interviews authors as well.

"Jill Valentine. You look pretty good for a dead woman."

You hope you're smiling and not snarling. You laugh it off hollowly.

"So, I've been told. I actually lost quite a bit of weight."

"Dying. It's the new dieting."

The audience laughs. He recrosses his legs and puts on a serious face.

"Raccoon City 1998. It's become kind of a fascination for our culture. Your book is a firsthand account of the days leading up. Would you care to share anything about that experience?"

You take a sip of water.

"To be completely honest, the book probably remembers it better than I do. I was just trying so hard to keep low and stay alive that a lot of it seems like... a big blur. I just... anyone who goes around trying to tell people that it's the end of the world gets written off as a complete wacko. So, there I was saying 'The sky is falling' to people who weren't really listening."

"You know, a guy said the same thing to me on the way to work this morning."

"Sounds like a wacko." You don't miss a beat.

The audience laughs.

"I'm sure you must get this all the time-"

"Is it about my last name?"

More laughter. You're actually pretty good at this. He waits for the audience to quiet down before continuing.

"What's it like... killing a zombie? And how do you feel about organizations like CURE and Terrasave who think zombies deserve rights and the chance for rehabilitation."

And there's a question you weren't ready for. You pause, chewing over a response.

"Killing a zombie isn't like killing a human. Most humans aren't trying to eat you. They don't think, they don't feel. They're just eating machines. And it hurts because they used to be your friends and neighbours, but in order to survive, you can't see them like that."

_The dead need to stay dead._

He nods and shakes your hand, thanking you. It's going to commercial break. He tells the audience that your book is available both in stores and online.

The ringing in your ears finally stops as you make it to your green room. A woman with pink hair unplugs your microphone and unpins your hair.

Your heart hammers and you sip more water. She leaves and you press your face against the cool glass.

"The dead should stay dead."

* * *

_I was always brave and kind of righteous, now I find I'm wavering.  
Crawl out of your grave, you find this fight just doesn't mean a thing._

_(She ain't got that swing!)_

_Thanks for noticing._

* * *

Blood pools around your ankles. The Zenobia is sinking and you have to find Chris. Chris is all tied up and trapped under the rubble, but it feels like your feet are stuck. Shark fins circle you in the water. None attack. The ship creaks and groans like a can being crushed. Maybe it is. All the pressure from the water. Perhaps you have already sunk. Chris just keeps screaming for your help.

* * *

The screams are coming from the mostly muted television. You're not sure if it's porn or a movie that you're watching. You guess that you fell asleep watching HBO. The guide confirms this.

The drugs you're on can be described as 'everything and the bathroom sink'. You have a full one of those little boxes that old people get. The sleeping pills and antidepressants don't do anything to stop the nightmares, sadly. The strangest thing Simmons gave you is supposedly an iron supplement, but doesn't taste like iron. It does help you with these weird cravings you get at night. The cravings you don't know how to voice.

It's a hunger. Hunger for meat.

You don't care which meat, so long as it's pulsing and fresh. Like, hot off a body fresh.

Which is fucking gross and creepy. Sherry tells you it's something you get used to. Her virus is worse, it makes her horny for close family members. So, good thing she's an orphan. Freud would have a field day with the clan Birkin.

You should probably be seeing a shrink. Not a Freudian analyst of course, but maybe a therapist. The busy road schedule doesn't allow for much other than signing books and appearing on TV.

The hotel room you're in has a kitchenette, which is awesome, because you're a modern girl who actually likes cooking for yourself. Tonight's black bean chili rests on the stove. Whoops. Probably should have put that in the fridge.

Sometimes you sleepwalk and find yourself rooting through alleys or sitting on swingsets. Ada always finds you. Or maybe it's just a figure of your imagination. You'd think that the woman has other things to do than stalk you. He voice is soft and soothing, sensual, but fragile. Like the cracked top of creme brule.

"Have you ever thought about why we do it?" She asks you.

"Use swingsets?"

You don't have to see or hear her to know she's scoffing.

"Why we subject ourselves to these situations again and again. More murderous scientists, more monsters, more viruses and parasites. Why is it that it's us same few pushed into these situations?"

"Because we're the starring characters of a widely successful series?"

"You wish."

"My shitty diaries made my corpse ass rich, I don't have to wish for much."

She's silent, waiting for you to stop dancing around the question.

"If we don't then someone else will have to." You say.

"Spare the saviour bullshit, Jill. We can all make excuses. It's our job, we have to because bad people will hunt us down or hurt the ones we love. At the end of the day it's just a lie we tell ourselves."

You pause, "Are you projecting your own existential crisis on me?"

"Maybe. Maybe I'm not even here."

"I don't think my subconscious is as capable at being a cryptic asshole. But, fine, I'll play. Why do you do it Ada?"

"Because it's the only thing I'm good at. Your turn."

"I like it."

"Oh?"

"The smell, the fear, the creatures. I like killing them. I like solving puzzles. I like being there with Chris. It's... fun."

"Wow. Here I was thinking I was the headcase."

"You asked."

* * *

You wake up at four in the afternoon with thirteen missed messages on your phone. You groan and paw at your face. Most of the calls are from Brandy-Candy-whatever about needing you to sign off on some photos or go through promo scripts. You groan and tip off the bed and into a crouch. Fifty push ups is the routine you've been giving yourself, but today your right shoulder gives out.

"Fuck." You hiss and press at the sore spot.

The knot of scar tissue moves a little under your probing fingers. You look and see streaks of purple veins fingering your collarbone.

This spot. Your infection. Breathing deeply you pick up your phone and dial the number given to you back at the bureau.

It takes three rings for Simmons to answer. His voice is wary.

"This is Lieutenant Valentine. I'm having some... issues with my infection point."

He changes his tone to concern, "What kind of symptoms are you experiencing?"

Your vision isn't blurry, you don't think you have a fever, no nausea or dizziness.

"The area is sore and appears to be throbbing."

The tightness stretches down your arm.

"I think it's spreading."

A wave of calm hits you. The more serious or dangerous a situation, the less freaked out you are. It's an incredible asset considering your line of work.

"Take three of the pills in the yellow bottle. Swallow with water. Do your best to avoid using the limb today."

"I'm right handed."

"I thought soldiers were taught to be ambidexterous?"

"Goodbye Derek."

You hang up and jog to the bathroom. Your fingers are clenching and unclenching without your permission. They help twist off the cap though. The glass of water shakes in your hand and spills a little down your front.

"Fuck."

The pills are in you. You slump onto the bathroom floor. Your hand is still spasming and it the webs between your fingers feel gummy. Your left hand puts a tight squeeze around your wrist, as if to create a tourniquet.

Suddenly, the throbbing stops. Sweat lines your brow and you test your fingers. They feel a little cold, but wiggle at your command.

You laugh breathlessly and head to the kitchen to make some eggs.

Ada Wong is sitting at your table and reading your 'Diary'.

"There's a typo on page 28." She says.

You fold your arms, but then shrug it off.

"I could have used your help back there. 's far as I see it, this is your fault."

She looks up from the book and bites her lip.

"Not my fault, but still my responsibility."

You crack some eggs- making enough for two. She always dances around topics so you wait for the inevitable word vomit of a socially awkward spy.

"How did I end up getting home last night?"

"I slipped you a roofie and dragged you here."

"Didn't even buy me a drink."

"Beers were involved."

Well, that makes it okay.

"You shouldn't be getting cozy with Simmons."

You side-eye her as you stir the scramble. She has dark bags under her eyes and hair still wet from the shower. It's the most human-looking you've seen her.

"Speaking from experience?"

She shudders.

"Oh, gross."

"It was for a job. He seemed to think my feelings went deeper."

"Let me guess, he still calls and you have no idea how he got your number?"

"Unfortunately."

"I'm turning into a BOW aren't I?"

You're afraid to hear the answer. Ada stays silent. Your shoulders begin to shake as you stir the eggs. They're going to burn. It doesn't matter. You'd rather be eating people anyway. The burner crackles and hisses at the moisture dripping onto it.

Arms wrap around your shoulders and reach to turn off the stove.

"I'm going to fix this."

"Why did he make me come back? I don't want to be a monster."

But who is to say you weren't one already?

* * *

He's no more than a boy. He scrabbles at your gloved hands and covered arms. You ignore his cries and force his mouth open. Black worms slither out of the canister in a thick, wriggling sludge. He tries to vomit, to chew through them. You squeeze his jaw. His eyes are beginning to blacken. The parasite is taking.

Irving snickers as you slip back into the cab. His foot is tapping the dashboard. Such an impatient little shit. You recognize feelings of loathing that are not your own. Frankly, the real you is more focused on how fucking hot a leather catsuit is in goddamned DRC summer conditions. The device allows you to crack the window at least. Driving with a mask on is a complete mystery and you have no idea how you do it. Your vision is all red and warped.

It's a good thing there aren't any cops left. Well, without parasitic worms exploding out of their throats. They're a lot easier to pay off that way too.

Irving makes some noise that you register as "I'm from New Joisey!" and you switch gears to drive.

* * *

You silently eat eggs while watching Buffy reruns. To be honest, you're a little embarrassed at showing weakness like that. Emotions are meant to be compartmentalized and repressed. Maybe you should up your dose of antidepressants for that soft numbness you so enjoy?

Ada seems a little sheepish herself. You know her reputation of disappearing frequently in the middle of conversations. You wonder how long it's been since she was able to just hang out.

"Ada, we're friends, right?"

She blinks at you and nods slightly.

"You're not just doing this out of some sense of obligation? You do actually want to be here with me right now?"

"I don't talk to people."

"You talk to me."

"Yes."

"Cool. So. Can I know your real name?"

"No."

"Can I guess?"

"Sure."

"Is it something equally porn star-y? Like Dusty Cheeks, or Cherry Daquiri?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Sadie Cooter?"

Her mouth twitches. That's a win. You got her to smile.

* * *

They've dressed you more casually for this interview. Blue jeans and high heels. You're better at walking in them post-Wesker. (He insisted they be a part of your catsuit for some reason. Slow torture or Emma Peele fetish? You don't really want to know.)

The hostess is perky and very gay. She greets you with a platonic hug while politely averting her gaze from your cleavage. You know it's hard. Your tits are pretty fantastic.

Except there's a big weird scar between them, but make-up slathered enough foundation between your girls to cover it up.

"So. Fighting the undead. Crazy scary. But doing it in boots? I could never."

The audience titters.

"Yeah. Didn't really think that one through." You say with a sigh.

"So what-uh, what kind of fashion accessories would you recommend for the apocalypse?"

"Well. I can't speak for world flooding or super volcanoes. But, generally I'd go with something you aren't afraid of getting ripped or covered in blood."

"Okay, so there is no Zombie Chic?"

"Red dresses are rather popular."

"I'll keep that in mind. Anything else?"

"Wool socks. Never underestimate the power of dry, warm feet."

"You hear that ladies? Foot comfort is key for survival. Always the little things."

She thanks you for your time and tells the audience they'll all be getting free copies of your book.

Back stage she finds you and apologizes for making light of the situation. You wave her off and say it's good to inform people through humour.

* * *

You go out for dinner and order the rarest steak you can. The meat tastes good on your tongue. Your phone rings. The other patrons look shoot you judgmental glares as you wrestle it out of your bag.

The number makes you feel nauseous.

It's Chris.


	10. Chris: I Always Will

**A/N: Shoutout and thanks to illyrilex for continuing to read and review each chapter. You're awesome and I'm glad you're enjoying Ada's presence.**

**This chapter refers specifically to two of the 'Viral Campaign' advertisements for Resident Evil 5. **

**There are also a few references to Queen in here. The scene in J's bar is in part inspired by Shaun of the Dead. **

**Again, talking about the fluidity of sexuality and attraction/differences between romantic and sexual relationships. Part of this talk is inspired by a few real friends who, while otherwise attracted to the same sex, have fallen in love with a member of the opposite sex. **

**Now go watch Cabaret and you'll get what I'm talking about.**

**Trigger warnings for mentions off suicide.**

* * *

No answer. No message. No idea why she'd want to pick up in the first place. Your palm brushes past the long whiskers on your face. The usual rugged stubble has given you a full beard. Hell, you've gotten sloppy on all of your shaving. Soon you'll be full on bear gay.

You're toeing a fine line here.

Said line is actually the railing of a bridge. There's a telephone next to you. The kind that instantly connect to a crisis line. There'll be a reassuring voice telling you that it's okay and all worth it.

Just not the voice you want to hear.

You need your safety chute. Only, you've already cut the lines of it. You're free falling toward the ground and it's your own damn fault.

You step off the ledge and sit down near the railing.

"Sir, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just thought I saw someone fall in."

You wonder what it felt like to fall from that window. Having the glass shards slice open your arms and face before the percussion of the impact turned your organs to jelly.

You take the bus home, because honestly, you're a fucking mess.

* * *

The chair is deceptively comfortable. You feel it conforming to your contour and worry about leaving a butt-shaped print on its leather surface. You psychiatrist is a woman with unnaturally blonde hair and glasses that block her eyebrows.

You exchange pleasantries. She's your second doctor, a referral paid for by the BSAA. Very pricey.

"Any time you're ready. It's your hour."

The part of you that bucks authority and all semblance of 'the system' hates her immediately. The part of you that tries to be reasonable and rational takes a deep breath.

"Have you ever heard of Sisyphus?"

"The titan?"

"He was a mortal king, actually. But, like the titan Prometheus, he was given an eternal sentence in Tartarus for the sins he committed. Sisyphus was given this massive boulder to push up to the top of a hill. Only, it would roll back down the other side of the mountain and he'd have to do it all over again."

"Do you see yourself as Sisyphus?"

"I do push a lot of boulders."

Her look cuts through your affable mask like a knife.

"I thought it would be over when we took down Umbrella. But it wasn't. It's like no matter how many cities get destroyed or lives lost, some asshole will think 'he lets release a virus! I bet it'll be different this time!'. And usually that asshole is Albert Wesker. Only he's dead now."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Relieved."

"And...?"

"Mournful? I don't fucking know. It's like there's this big empty space in my life where meaning and purpose used to be."

"Do you miss him as your mentor."

That has you tensing your shoulders. You tuck your chin into your chest. Jill calls this your 'turtle mode'. Thousands of lies and denials coat your tongue. They threaten to spill over your cracked lips. What's that they say about the first step toward recovery? Admitting the problem.

"I miss Albert Wesker every day."

* * *

**Raccoon City, 1997**

You stare at the clearest blue eyes across the table. Jill has her chin resting on her hand. She's half looking at you and half looking out the window. J's bar is dead this time of day, with the exception of a few regulars. The two of you come here on breaks to escape the overcrowded office. And to play with the free drinking straws.

You shoot a spitball at her. She wrinkles her nose and kicks your shin lightly.

"Don't be gross."

Jill has this habit of pushing her hair behind her ears. However, it's longer on one side than the other, so it always falls forward into an asymmetrical bob. You want to tell her that it makes her look elfin, but she'd take it at a height dig.

The door creaks as another patron enters the bar. Your eyes wander to the sports game on the tiny TV above the bar. You don't keep up with basketball, but it's less boring than golf. Both are less boring than the report you're working on.

A hand claps you on the back and you choke on your beer.

"Nice to see you two are hard at work."

Jill hands you a napkin to mop up yourself.

"Nose to the grindstone, Captain." She gives a sarcastic salute.

You both grin at him like the bad kids in school. The others complain that you get away with being such brats because of favouritism. You wish Wesker would just favour you a little more... privately.

Wesker slides into the seat beside you. He pushes his sunglasses up to his hairline. Blue-green eyes survey the bar for the waitress. He spots her and raises his index finger. She nods.

"Do you both have your accounts of the Tennyson attack straight?" He asks.

"In the spirit of objectivity, Sir, Chris and I have not discussed our separate reports."

"It's best to find the truth between the lines. Memory can be influenced easily and all that." You add.

Wesker nods and brushes a palm over his gelled straw-coloured hair. His eyes are fixed on a portly trucker flipping through the choices on the juke box.

"If he chooses Springsteen again, I swear to god..." Jill says.

"No love of the boss." You laugh.

The music disturbs the air of the previously quiet bar. The piano keys are all too familiar.

"Oh fuck yeah."

Jill groans and burrows her face further into her palm.

* * *

The record crackles with the needle before sound hits the speakers._ Tonight you're gonna have yourself a good time. You feel al-iiiiiiive. And the world is turning inside out._

_You're floating around in ecstasy._

The music joins Freddie's voice and you hop to properly gyrate your hips to the rhythm. Maybe if you listen to music about having a good time, you'll start having a good time.

Also, your sister is coming over and you need to hide the razors, beer empties, and generally clean and childproof the house.

It's a feeble attempt at making yourself appear normal. Claire won't be fooled. She's a bloodhound for your bullshit. Every sleepless night and lonely fuck will be written all over your friendly face.

It'll be just like every other visit. Claire does the hours long car ride to show up at your door with groceries. She'll cook the groceries while you make a salad. Kevin will watch dumb toddler shows with Allie and then you'll all eat around the TV before they leave.

For now you pretend to be okay and scoot around the apartment with a vacuum cleaner and bottle of air freshener. You use the broom as an air guitar while screaming along to 'Killer Queen'. That is, until you hear a hammering on the door.

"Sup?"

"This is a best-of album, you poser."

Your sister looks like she's trying hard not to be amused with a green bundle of child stuck to her chest and a grocery bag on each arm. She pushes past you and makes a bee-line for the kitchen. Kevin steps forward and you close the door on him.

"Chris."

You open it.

Kevin flips you off. You go to the kitchen to hover behind the people you actually like.

Allie is gumming a plastic doughnut and gurgling as her mother packs away vegetables.

"You know I have a job and food right?"

"Which is why the only thing in your fridge is condiments and iceberg lettuce."

"I was making burgers."

She rolls her eyes, clearly seeing through your bullshit.

"I heard you started seeing a headshrinker. BSAA prescribed."

You go into turtle mode and whirl around in defensive anger.

"Yeah, well that shit's supposed to be private."

"Not when you're on fucking suicide watch. Jesus, Chris, what happened back there?"

She grabs for your face and you back away. Your back hits the cupboard and Claire has you pinned. Allie sways between you. Her blue-green eyes stare up at you with a quiet intensity.

"It's not just Africa... is it? This is a long time coming." You flinch.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Chris. You used to volunteer at homeless and animal shelters. You're a nurturer, not a killer."

"He killed them all. He hurt you..." Your eyes drop to the strawberry blonde toddler clinging to her mother like a koala.

Claire's pale fingers go to Allie's hair and her mouth tugs into a lopsided frown. Now she's the one evading. You tuck a finger under her chin.

"I am seeing a shrink. It's a required thing after each mission anyway. She seems like the no-nonsense type. Kinda like a woman I know. Maybe she'll be able to pound me back into shape."

"If this is your roundabout way of asking how Jill's doing... I didn't want that mental image of whatever it is you two did to unwind after missions."

"Wait... what?"

"Pound back into shape."

She's got this bright look in her eye that looks like pain, so you take her deflection with a chuckle.

"You're filthy. How is she?"

"Doing better than you. And that's saying something because she looks half-dead and highly medicated. Also, you should turn on your TV more if you wanna find out."

Kevin's made his way into the kitchen in search of beer. You hand him one without being asked. He sense the personal nature of the conversation and takes Allie with him as he leaves.

"Come on Kiddo, let's go watch Dora."

The moment has passed and Claire goes back to peeling potatoes. You feel the tension roll off her in waves. It coils around you like a snake and begins to squeeze.

"I'm sorry." You sigh.

"Why sorry?"

"About Jill. Not being good enough. Not being there for either of you. I'm pretty sure the only thing I am good at it is killing monsters."

She turns to you and jabs the peeler in your direction.

"Christopher Redfield. Don't you dare talk about my brother that way. Don't you ever make yourself sound worthless while still being a self-obsessed ass. You're going through post-traumatic stress. There's a difference between being mentally and emotionally sick and being no good."

"I'm getting mixed messages from this rant. It's okay but I'm still being an asshole?"

"Yep." And she peels potatoes furiously.

You hug her from behind. She stiffens a little, but leans back into the embrace. Your lips and jaw scratch along her crown as you kiss her temple.

"Thanks Sis."

"Shut up you big jerk."

"Love you too."

* * *

"I'm gay."

Your psychiatrist, to her credit, doesn't bat an eyelash.

"Me too." She says.

The tight feeling in your lungs seems to deflate like the pressure in the room.

"Why do you think I was referred as your psychiatrist?"

"Because I have weird daddy issues and try to fuck male authority figures?"

"Er. It was suggested that you have a person with similar experiences with whom you could talk to." She fiddles with her pen.

You sit up with your knees on your elbows and your back bowed.

"My sister knows. No one else in my family does."

"Why?"

"Parents are dead. Car crash. Dad was drunk. Grandparents're heavy duty Catholics."

"You think they wouldn't accept you?" It sounds like a stupid question, but she's getting paid to make you talk.

"No, they wouldn't. It's not like I've met a man worth marrying anyway. Not that I could if I wanted to."

A dark look crosses both of your faces. There's a pause before she speaks.

"Have you met a woman worth marrying?"

"Kinda defeats the purpose of being gay."

"It takes away your 'gay cred' for sure, but I know a few people who call themselves 'homoexceptional'."

"Are they exceptional homos?"

"They're gay with one exception. Their spouses."

"Like Freddie Mercury."

"Hmn?"

"Lead singer of Queen. He liked boys and girls, but his life partner was a woman. She was... his only true friend."

"So you have met a woman worth marrying?"

You look at her from below your eyebrows and blow out a deep sigh.

"Everyone always wants to know about me and Jill."

"So, no?"

"We were married for years. Not like, legally, or anything. But, she was my other half, yeah."

"And when she died?"

"It was like the living half of myself had to work twice as hard to function."

"It sounds like you still feel this way. Even though Jill is alive."

"How do you stick two halfs of a whole back together? Especially when one side's more worn down and the other's jagged?"

"With a lot of glue, I'd imagine."

* * *

**Thanks for continuing to read. Reviews are more likely to get updates than anything.**


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